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C.SS 'iX 

DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


A EOMANCE. 


BY 




JEANNETTE ErHADERMANN, 

’ M 


AUTHOR OF “forgiven AT LAST.” 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1872 . 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


TO 

THE PEOPLE OF TENSAS PAKISH, LOUISIANA, 

THE HOME FKIENDS WHO WELCOMED MY FIRST CRUDE 
EFFORT SO CORDIALLY, 

AND JUDGED IT SO LENIENTLY, 

► 

IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THEIR KINDNESS. 

JEANNETTE R. HADERMANN. 




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CONTEE'TS 


• 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Is Introductory 9 

11. — “At Last” 20 

III. — Two Breakfast-Tables 25 

IV. — Man-Traps 30 

V. — The Trap is Sprung 35 

VI. — Nothing New 40 

VII. — What Everybody Thought 44 

VIII. — Actually Married 50 

IX. — Is Dr. Lombard’s 59 

X. — Fictitious Happiness 61 

XL — “ Obsolete Becky” 69 

XII. — The Work of Alienation 76. 

XIII. — The Infantry Deploys upon the Field 88 

XIV. — Matrimonial Cogitations 97 

XV. — A Long Good-By 102 

XVI. — The Last Altercation 107 

XVII. — A Counterfeit Gentleman 118 

XVIII. — A Chapter of Comments 124 

XIX. — Trouble at Tanglewood 125 

XX. — Treats of Nobodies 132 

XXL— Under the Yoke 138 

XXII. — The Last Drop in Bertha Lombard’s Cup 145 

XXIII.— Such A Nice Young Man ! 154 

XXIV. — An Advertisement 161 

XXV. — Dr. Reynard sharpens one of his Tools 164 

XXVI. — No one to blame 169 

(vii) 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXVII. — Fancies not Far'ts * 178 

XXVIII. — Mademoiselle H61^ne Barrow 183 

XXIX.— The Aland Household 191 

XXX. — A Change for the Better 203 

XXXI.— A Change for the Worse 211 

XXXIL— A Family Council 223 

XXXIIL— Life at Aland 233 

XXXIV.— Helen’s D4but 240 

XXXV. — Counterplotting 249 

XXXVI. — Man’s Extremity — God’s Opportunity 260 

XXXVII. — Disinterested Advice 267 

XXXVIII. — Rebellious Proceedings 277 

XXXIX. — A Voice from the Grave 286 

XL. — A Rival to be feared 293 

XLI. — Jack Bolton 302 

XLIL — Outwitted 312 

XLIII. — Unmasked 323 

XLIV. — Baffled by the Truth 334 

XLV. — Remasking 344 

XLVI. — Mr. Bolton in the Witness-Box 350 

XLVII. — Dr. Reynard plays his last Card 360 

XLVIII . — ‘‘ Those Winchesters” 371 

XLIX. — Penitent Helen 384 

L. — Cacoethes Scribendi 395 

LI. — Better the Good Will than the 111 Will of a Dog..,. 403 
LII. — Called to Account 408 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


CHAPTER I. 

IS INTRODUCTORY. 

Accepting as correct in ninety-nine cases out of a 
hundred, the principle that “ first impressions are 
everything,’^ I have selected the gloaming of one of 
the pleasantest days in that pleasantest of months, 
May, as a propitious time for introducing to your 
notice some of the most important personages among 
those destined to figure in these pages. I shall give 
them the benefit of all the adventitious attractions at 
my command, after which, if they fail to gain your 
good opinion, or, having gained it, fail to retain it, 
with themselves, and not with their historian, rest the 
blame. 

As to time, it is sufficient for my purpose to state 
that this story has a margin somewhere between the 
years eighteen hundred and eighteen hundred and 
seventy. 

As to locality, it is sufficient for your purpose to in- 
form you that the theater of the events about to be 
recorded is situated upon the shores of one of the most 
charming of the many inland lakes that dimple the 
broad fair face of lower Louisiana. 

Those who know this secluded spot at all, know it 
as “ Silver Lake,” so called from the silvery whiteness 
of its waters, I presume. But it has never yet attained, 
2 (9) * 


10 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


and it is more than probable never will attain, to the 
glory of representation in the atlas. 

Silver Lake is a pretty, no-shaped sheet of water, 
whose gently sloping banks are fringed with a tall 
coarse grass of the most vivid green, and shaded by 
the cypress, the button-willow, and the water-oak. It 
boasts of a circumference of some sixteen or eighteen 
miles, and its shores on both sides are ornamented by the ^ 
handsomely-appointed and neatly-kept premises of the 
cotton plantations which “front” upon the lake-shore. 

These mansion-houses are few in number and scat- 
tered widely apart, for the estates to which they indi- 
vidually belong embrace many hundred acres each. 

The individuals with whom we have to do on this 
particular May evening were the owners of one of the 
least pretentious estates on the whole lakeside; but, 
unpretentious as it was, and as little claim as it had to 
be anything else, it aspired, in common with its better- 
appointed neighbors, to the dignity of a distinctive 
appellation, and was pretty generally known as “ Tan- 
gle wood.” The significance of this designation will 
presently make itself apparent. 

The dwelling at “ Tanglewood” was a rambling 
frame house, a story and a half high, which had 
originally been painted a dull slate color. Owing to 
atmospheric influences, however, and to time’s defacing 
touch, the slate color had resolved itself into a dingy 
bluish-white, strongly suggestive of the complexion 
produced by the too frequent use of mercurial remedies. 
One Cyclopean dormer-window pierced the roof, looking 
out upon the shed of the broad veranda, which is as 
essential a consideration in Southern architecture as 
the walls of the house themselves. A balustrade that 
had once possessed some claim to architectual orna- 
mentation, inclosed this veranda ; but what with long, 
yawning spaces in one place, and straight, unpainted 
slips, newly inserted, in others, it was certainly not a 
thing of beauty, nor a joy forever, unless, perhaps, to 
the carpenter, who found in it a perennial job. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


11 


Precisely in the middle of a most uncompromisingly 
square yard sat this domicile, — a yard covering about an 
acre of land, inclosed by a superannuated picket-fence 
grown gray with age, and dotted thickly over with 
prides of China, paper mulberries, and tall cotton- 
woods, all growing in reckless luxuriance wherever 
they had chosen to locate themselves, for the yard at 
Tanglewood was as entirely a piece of nature’s handi- 
work as was the most tangled forest thicket. So much 
for externals. 

Within the house, things were a degree more in- 
viting, for whereas, externally, Tanglewood wore a 
rickety devil-may-care face, there was evidently within- 
doors a presiding spirit striving industriously to make 
the very best of a very bad bargain. The house was 
furnished decidedly poorly, as houses in that neighbor- 
hood went ; but every once in awhile one would come 
unexpectedly upon some handsome, old-fashioned arti- 
cle of furniture, such as the elegant mirrored armoire 
which adorned their only spare bedroom, or the richly- 
carved sideboard which sat in the dining-room, sup- 
porting its minimum of shabby pressed glass and 
dingy plated-ware with such stately dignity, and 
looking so sadly out of keeping with its meager sur- 
roundings, or a solitary vase of rare china or some 
unique costly trifle would present itself in the form of 
suggestive hints as to the auld lang syne of the Tangle- 
wood people. 

In strong contrast with these luxurious inheritances, 
stood the various necessary articles invented by the 
presiding genius before mentioned. Witness that long, 
low, exceedingly comfortable lounge, invitingly draped 
in pretty bright chintz, which, on certain inevitable 
occasions (for the best of chintz will soil eventually), 
is stripped of its cloak of charity, and stands forth in 
native ugliness, an old white-pine box ; and that cosy- 
looking arm-chair, a regular Sleepy Hollow affair, cor- 
responding in color and pattern with the drapery of 
that deceitful lounge, is so cunningly scooped out qf 


12 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


an old flour-barrel, and padded and cushioned and 
fringed, that all pity for the necessity for the make- 
shift is merged into admiration of the contriver’s in- 
genuity. 

But I am not going to expose all the secrets of 
Tangle wood. I have told you enough to prepare you 
for the shocking, deplorable, disgraceful announcement 
that its inmates were poor ! undeniably, unmitigatedly, 
ungenteelly poor ! 

The family upon whom this heavy ban had descended 
consisted of a father and three daughters. Collectively 
and familiarly known as “ old Major Snowe and the 
Snowe girls individually, as ‘‘ Major Benjamin 
Snowe, Miss Snowe (baptized Agnes), Miss Becky 
Snowe, and Miss Julia Snowe.” 

I propose introducing them to you individually 
and formally, as they are all grouped together on the 
veranda, “in position, smiling, and at ease,” in the 
cool of the May-day evening on which my story 
opens. 

Leaning back in a large willow arm-chair, with the 
contented aspect of a man who is just entering upon 
a well-earned rest, sits Major Benjamin Snowe, the 
head of the family. Physically speaking, a fine enough 
looking head. Practically speaking, however, no head 
at all. He has between his lips his inevitable pipe, 
while in his right hand he still clutches the victorious 
little pawn that has just decided a hardly-contested 
battle in his favor, and as he sends the curling wreaths 
of vapor floating out upon the soft spring air, he 
glances across the little table which separates him 
from his conquered foe, with mirthful triumph in his 
keen blue eyes. 

Major Snowe — though wherefore “ Major” not even 
the oldest inhabitant could satisfactorily explain — was 
a hale, handsome old man, who had^managed to pre- 
serve his haleness and handsomene* far beyond the 
prime of life by sheer force of doing as little as possi- 
ble, thinking as little as possible, and “ worrying” as 


INTRODUCTORY. 


13 


little as possible. In his most impressible years he 
had learned how “care killed a cat,” and bravely re- 
solved not to endure a like melancholy fate. 

A long time ago he had come into the neighborhood 
of Silver Lake, as a transient visitor to a college friend. 
Had fallen in love with, and been fallen in love with, 
by the sister of that college friend. Had married her 
and entered into possession and mastership of her 
property, consisting of a fine cotton plantation, entirely 
unencumbered with debt, and a goodly number of 
“ hands.” Had made her a very good husband up to 
the time of her death, had missed her sadly after that 
event, had never cared enough for any other woman 
to replace her, but had contented himself with staying 
quietly at home, mismanaging everything in the most 
systematic manner, and, in short, acted on the prin- 
ciple of doing as little as possible, thinking as little as 
possible, and worrying as little as possible, with such 
pre-eminent success, that he had managed to encumber 
his wife’s originally fine property with mortgage after 
mortgage, until it would have required the acumen of 
a Philadelphia lawyer to tell who was the largest 
shareholder in the poor old plantation at the time 
treated of. 

Major Snowe entertained a vague hope, and still 
vaguer intention, of lifting all these mortgages at some 
unknown time in the dim future, but the how or the 
when were by no means clear to the poor muddle- 
headed financier. 

His one fixed idea was that they must all economize, 
and he hurled that threadbare word economy at the 
heads of his hapless daughters in season and out of 
season, as if the mere reiteration of the word was all 
that was necessary to clear them of debt and raise 
them to the highest pinnacle of affluence and (conse- 
quent) earthly bliss. 

Yet, he was by no means a rigid disciplinarian. He 
was merely a theoretical economist, who would have 
been more surprised than pleased to see his own theo- 
2 * 


14 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ries brought practically to bear upon his own house- 
hold. His daughters had done pretty much as they 
chose ever since it had pleased inscrutable Providence 
to take away the real head of the family, in the person 
of their mother, — a wise, energetic little woman, as 
cheery as a sunbeam, — and leave them to the sole 
guardianship of a careless, unpractical, dreamy father. 

He had very little curiosity as to the manner in 
which his girls disposed of their unlimited supply of 
time, — nor did he require an annoyingly minute account 
of how they spent their very limited supply of pin- 
money. On one point alone was he exacting, and that 
was on the all-important one of his daily game of chess. 
Strange to say, this otherwise supremely indolent, 
almost apathetic, old man, had one grand passion, and 
that was for the mimic warfare of the chess-table. On 
this one point he was fiercely exacting, as the Misses 
Snowe knew to their cost. 

Now, as his daughters one and all loathed the game 
of chess, and in the privacy of their own rooms roundly 
anathematized the inventor of tlfat noble amusement, 
he could hardly have devised a more ingenious method 
of making his one parental exaction peculiarly odious. 

In order to divide the daily torment impartially, 
Agnes, the eldest sister, had instituted the decision by 
lot, as to who should be the victim. 

So there was a hurried, but furtive, drawing of 
straws whenever the regular post-prandial, “ Come, one 
of you,” resounded through the hall, summoning one 
pf them to the torture-chamber. 

On this particular evening, the conquered foe, at 
whom Major Snowe was blinking in such malicious 
triumph, was his youngest born, — Miss Julia Snowe, — 
she having been the luckless drawer of the shortest 
straw. 

The expression of her countenance, as she pushes 
her chair impatiently back from the chess-table, is none 
of the most amiable ; but I am afraid it is hardly fair 
to draw her portrait at this particular juncture. Please, 


INTRODUCTORY, 


15 


therefore, take into consideration, that if, as a truthful 
chronicler I am compelled to say, there was a decided 
shade of peevishness on her really pretty face, I am 
drawing her on chess-day, and do not be overhasty in 
condemning. Her expression was pretty much such 
as we all wear when just released from the dentist’s 
chair, and her feelings were also typical, I imagine, of 
that escape from purgatory. 

But to give you the promised description. She was 
smaller than either of her two older sisters, slight in 
figure and graceful in bearing. Willowy, I think, is 
the word that best describes her general appearance. 
She had wavy brown hair, soft and glossy, that grew 
low on her snowy-white forehead, and drooped grace- 
fully behind her pretty pink ears. She had very dark- 
blue eyes, with long, fringy black lashes, curling up at 
the ends, and giving to her eyes a deeper, more soul- 
ful look than they were really entitled to. She had 
hands and feet almost childish in their diminutive 
daintiness, — useless little hands and lazy little feet. 
Hands that seemed made for no better purpose than 
toying with fans or plucking roses ; feet that carried 
their fair owner listlessly and languidly over the beaten 
track of a pretty and soulless woman’s useless existence. 

In her motions she was grace itself. She did not 
walk — she floated. She was also the happy possessor 
of that good thing in woman, a low, sweet voice, — she 
did not talk, she murmured. With such a list of 
charms, how can you blame her if she fell into the error 
of thinking that she had performed her part in the 
great plan of existence by simply being what she was, 
Miss Julia Snowe, a beautiful nonentity ? 

Between the names of Agnes Snowe and Julia 
Snowe on the record of births, in the old family Bible, 
came the name of Becky Snowe, or rather, to quote 
more literally from the record, “ Rebecca M. Snowe.” 
As she had en#red the world, and as she figured upon 
the family recm'd, so had she grown up a sort of mean 
between two extremes. She was a little taller than 


16 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Julia, without having attained the stately height of 
Agnes. She was the owner of a pair of kindly gray 
eyes, that had neither the languishing gentleness of 
Julia’s blue orbs, nor yet the repellant coldness of 
Agnes’s steely gaze. Her mouth, also, maintained the 
appointed medium between Julia’s rosebud aperture, 
which wore a perpetual smile (for outsiders), and her 
elder sister’s scornfully curving lip. Her hands, albeit 
rather larger than any woman likes her hands to be, 
were white and shapely, and seemed made for better 
things than fans and roses, though they might never 
achieve the glorious destiny of being decked with 
jeweled rings, as Agnes’s taper white fingers most un- 
doubtedly would be, if the wheel of fortune would only 
revolve once in her favor. As for her disposition, I 
refer you to the sleek, gray cat that lies curled up in 
her lap, in the most luxurious of knots, blinking his 
eyes lazily at the setting sun on this mild May even- 
ing ; to the dogs, who know her step and voice from 
all others about the premises, and to the parrot swing- 
ing in the cage just above her head, whose shrill and 
frequent utterance of, “ Becky — you Becky Snowe — 
you Becky,” betokens the best understanding between 
Becky and Poll. Whether, as you proceed with this 
story, you will pronounce my favorite Rebecca a be- 
tween in character as well as in physique, remains to 
be discovered. 

Sitting on the low, broad steps, which led down 
into the front yard I have already described so glow- 
ingly, was Miss Agnes Snowe, an undeniably hand- 
some woman, according to certain ideas on the subject 
of female beauty. 

She was tall and stately ; carried herself with the 
air of a princess royal ; looked as straight and as 
haughtily at you, with her cold gray eyes, as if she 
really were a princess of high degree, and you one of 
her humblest subjects just convicted of some flagrant 
act of disloyalty. Would give you the tips of her long, 
taper fingers, — if you were so presumptuous as to offer 


INTRODUCTORY. 


11 


to shake hands, — with a superb kindness that made 
you deeply sensible of her royal highness’s condescen- 
sion. Would inquire after the welfare of one’s self and 
one’s belongings, so queenishly, that one was invol- 
untarily tempted to reply with an humble, “ You are 
too good, miss.” Would throw other girls into perfect 
frenzies of suppressed wrath, by telling them coolly 
they looked “ quite nice,” when they fancied they were 
looking superlatively “ killing.” Would annihilate any 
poor aspirant for the position of accepted lover, who 
had nothing but his virtues and good looks to recom- 
mend him, with a withering refusal, so coolly insolent 
that it generally had the effect of sending him away 
thanking the fortune which had made her say “ no,” 
instead of “ yes.” 

Altogether she carried herself and her poverty so 
regally, that one hardly knew whether to laugh at her 
presumption, or pity her, in that she was not born to 
that high estate which she was so eminently fitted per- 
sonally to adorn. 

At the time treated of, our princess royal, pending 
the coming of her prince, was resting her august head 
upon her royal hand, gazing listlessly out over the fair 
expanse of Silver Lake. There was a curiously wist- 
ful look in her large gray eyes as she sat there, think- 
ing deeply, and the haughtiness with which she could 
envelop herself, as with a veil, at a moment’s notice, 
was not so perceptible, while there was no stranger 
eye upon her, no presumptuous mortal to be impressed 
or quelled by it. 

Her physical gaze took in a quiet enough homely 
picture. The dying tints of the day, that was almost 
gone, were softly reflected in the clear depths of the 
little lake, whose smooth surface was undisturbed by a 
single ripple. A pair of stately white cranes stalked 
along the margin of the water, with awkward, mincing 
steps, dipping their long beaks into the lake in quest 
of an evening meal. A noisy, fussy flock of geese was 
hurrying rapidly barnwards, as if fearful of being be- 


18 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


nighted. A group of sleek, spotted cows was standing 
patiently outside of the gate, meditatively chewing the 
cud, and ever and anon sending gentle-toned “ lows” 
through the fence, in answer to the vociferous com- 
plainings of their imprisoned offspring, by way of ex- 
horting them to quietness and patience. 

But Miss Snowe’s mental vision was reveling in 
scenes which, though probably of the earth, earthy, 
were certainly neither of the geese, goosy, nor of the 
cows, cowy. 

I have said that, for the nonce. Miss Snowe had so 
far forgotten her regality as to have allowed a seem- 
ingly wistful look to creep into her eyes, — usually such 
haughty eyes. Of what was she thinking ? 

Doubting, perchance, whether this little span of life 
be really worth the worry, the hurry, the heart-burn- 
ings, the brain labor we expend upon it. Asking her 
woman soul if there be no better, no higher, no truer 
life than one long, unceasing petty struggle to keep up 
appearance ; a struggle that lasts from the cradle to 
the grave. Or, had the gentle influences of that soft 
May evening stolen in upon a heart, prematurely old 
and hard, and happily suggested to her that 

“ It is not all of life to live, 

Nor all of death to die”? 


No, she was thinking of none of these things. She 
was thinking of the one only thing that could bring 
that wistful, almost soft look into her marble face, and 
that one thing was her own grinding poverty, and the 
wistfulness meant pity for Agnes Snowe. 

Suddenly she raised her head from her supporting 
hand, and pointing to a light which had just flashed 
into existence in a window of a house on the opposite 
shore of the lake, she turned to her sister Rebecca, 
saying, in a voice of hardly suppressed interest, “ At 
last.” Then heaving a sigh, as one does at the expi- 
ration of a long term of suspense, she rose from her 


INTRODUCTORY. 


19 


seat upon the steps, and, passing into the house, was 
seen no more that evening. 

In the olden time, when there were seers upon the 
face of the earth, gray-bearded, hoary-headed croakers, 
who could fix their prophetic eyes upon a cloudless sky 
and tell of elemental wars then brewing, or turning a 
contemplative gaze upon the unruffled brow of sleep- 
ing infancy, presage, with awful accuracy, a woeful 
career and tragic end for the smiling innocent, what 
elements of sorrow might not they have extracted from 
the quiet home-scene I have tried to paint you 1 

With the unerring vision of second-sight, the seer 
would have taken in my little sketch at a glance and 
have painted you a finished picture from the dimly- 
sketched outlines, with light and shadow so truthfully 
and so artistically portrayed that you would have had 
done with me and my story in half the time it has taken 
my poor plodding pen to travel thus far. But as (for- 
tunately for all story-tellers and would-be story-tellers) 
the race of seers has long since gone to dust, and the 
gift of second-sight is among the things that were, I 
will still have an opportunity to tell my story after my 
own fashion, drawing my own conclusions from my 
own premises, and instead of a presto, change I look- 
on-this-picture-and-then-on-that sort of way of doing 
business, I will have to drag your reluctant attention 
over the dusty highway of prosaic fact ; and if, for- 
sooth, I do not presage storms until the skies are at 
least overcast, nor foretell that yonder smiling cherub 
will travel post from the baby-jumper to the gallows, 
do not blame me, in that I am no prophetic raven, but 
blame the enlightenment of the age in which you and 
I, reader, have been so unfortunate as to see the light, 
— a Gradgrindian sort of age, that places fact upon the 
loftiest pedestal, and laughs to scorn fancy and ima- 
gination, with their offspring, legend and superstition. 


20 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


CHAPTER 11. 

^‘AT LAST.’’ 

The words “ at last” with which Miss Siiowe con- 
cluded her reverie are explainable in this manner : 

Although there were some half dozen estates bor- 
dering upon Silver Lake, the young ladies at Tangle- 
wood could hardly be said to have any neighbors with 
whom they could associate. The most of the planta- 
tions within visiting distance of them were owned by 
wealthy planters, whose families spent the greater 
portion of the winter in New Orleans, and the greater 
portion of the summer at some watering-place, being 
at home only late in the fall and early in the spring, 
so it was only in the interim between the two Sittings 
that the Tanglewood permanents saw anything of their 
migratory neighbors ; and as Major Snowe’s circum- 
stances were not such as admitted of much traveling 
about for his daughters, there were many weary months 
of each year during which they saw no white faces out 
of their own immediate family circle. But things 
were about to undergo a change, and the light in the 
window across the lake, which had elicited that ex- 
clamation from Miss Snowe, was the first indication 
that the change had actually taken place. 

Crossing the lake diagonally from Tanglewood, one 
landed in front of a noble plantation, bearing the local 
designation of Aland (water-land), a place which for 
many years past had been what is called a “ quarter- 
place,” — that is, no proprietor had made his residence 
there since the death of the father of the present 
owner, an event which had occurred more than a dozen 
years previously. The present proprietor having just 
come of age, and been emancipated from all legal re- 


**AT LAST. 


21 


train!, had inade known his intention of locating per- 
manently at Aland, in anticipation of which event 
extensive preparations had been making for some time 
past. The whole house, a large, roomy, ornate man- 
sion, had been repainted and rejuvenated. The walls 
of the halls and stairways had been oaked, and the 
floor of the large entrance-hall tessellated in black and 
white. Every room had been refurnished without re- 
gard to expense, — or taste either, I regret to add. 

The parlor shone resplendent in a gorgeous new 
carpet and curtains, not to match. Showy brocatelle 
sofas and chairs crowded the apartment, a clumsy 
marble-topped center-table gleamed white and bare in 
the center of the room, looking like a tombstone wait- 
ing for an epitaph. The low, broad mantel-shelf sup- 
ported at either end the inevitable matched flower 
vases, while in the center stood a huge old-fashioned, 
fancy clock under a glass shade, which seemed made 
for no earthly purpose but to fill up that bare space on 
that bare mantel-shelf, for there it had stood from time 
immemorial, pointing in the most stupidly idiotic and 
aggravatingly persistent manner to twenty minutes 
of two o’clock. 

Years had come and gone since that old clock had 
struck one, staggered onward forty minutes longer, 
given one faint, dying “tick,” and ceased its life’s 
work forever. For the heart of the old clock was 
broken by neglect and ill usage as many another heart 
has been broken. Bright eyes had grown dim and 
closed heavily on a weary world to open never more, 
brighter hopes had sprung, flourished, and withered ; 
little childish feet that had tripped lightly over trouble 
and over wrong, had grown large, waxed old, and gone 
plodding soberly down life’s shady hillside since that 
one solitary stroke had sent its faltering voice echoing 
through the house at Aland. And now, when every- 
thing else was regilding and repainting, the old clock 
alone remained unchanged, still pointing patiently to 
3 


22 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


twenty minutes of two, awaiting the coming of a 
bearded man, who had last stood in its presence a little 
rosy-cheeked boy, watching its hands with tear-dimmed 
eyes, eagerly anxious for the laggards to reach two ; 
for he was in durance vile for some childish misde- 
meanor, and was to stay shut up in the parlor until 
the clock struck two ; but the clock never did strike 
two, and if it had, the little culprit would never have 
heard it, for long before it had ticked its expiring tick 
the prisoner had found egress through an unguarded 
window. . But all that was long, long ago, and I am 
afraid I have grown garrulous on the subject of the 
old clock at Aland. 

The grounds, too, had all been put in neat trim for 
‘‘ young master’s” coming. Fresh gravel had been 
strewn upon the circular drive that curved around to 
the entrance-gate, and the Chinese privet that bordered 
the central walk trimmed up so as to admit a little 
more of the sunlight. The boat-house had received a 
new coating of whitewash, and the old sail-boat that 
had grown leaky from disuse was tightly calked and 
made seaworthy, the tattered sail patched and bleached, 
and everything else done that could be thought of, by 
a yard full of good-natured and affectionate slaves, 
whose simple hearts waxed glad at the tidings that 
“master” was coming to live at home. 

The whole premises had been in apple-pie order for 
at least two weeks, and the self-constituted household 
cabinet were growing impatient on one side of the lake, 
and our three lonely demoiselles at Tanglewood were 
weary of wondering when they would come, for a per- 
manent neighbor of almost any description would have 
been a Godsend, so how much more cause for rejoicing 
that a young and wealthy bachelor was to be located 
so near them ! 

At the moment when Miss Snowe had discovered 
the existence of a light in the parlor window at Aland, 
a dog-cart drew up in front of the large gate of that 
mansion, and from it sprang lightly two young men, a 


LASrr 


23 


smart, jauntily-dressed mulatto valet, and a sleek white- 
and-tan bloodhound. 

The at last’’ of the young lady on the one side of 
the lake was echoed almost simultaneously on the 
other side by the housekeeper at Aland, whose portly 
proportions and smiling face soon made their appear- 
ance in the open front door, as their owner hastened to 
give a hearty hand shake and a heartier welcome home 
to her boy that she’d “toted” many and many a time 
through that same door. 

While the two travelers are refreshing themselves, 
preparatory to partaking of the inviting supper that 
old Dora has gotten ready for them, I will tell you all 
that it is necessary to tell by way of introduction to 
Mr. Otis Barrow, the owner of Aland. 

As far as he was himself aware, he had but one 
relative in the world, and that relative was the young 
man who had accompanied him home to Aland for a 
few months’ stay. 

Aland, he knew, had belonged to his father before 
him ; but whether by inheritance or by right of pur- 
chase was more than he had ever been informed, or 
had ever cared to inquire into. He only knew that it 
had been handed down to him entirely unencumbered 
with debt, well stocked with mules and fine cattle, well 
peopled with “hands,” and yielding him a princely 
income. He had been so fortunate as to have had 
honest guardians. Upright and trustworthy friends 
of his father, who had sent him to school immediately 
after his father’s death (his mother had died before he 
could remember), and had faithfully administered his 
affairs until his majority, which had come about but a 
few months before his coming to Aland, at which time 
they had handed over their accounts and had started 
the young man about the administration of his own 
affairs, loaded with much good, wholesome advice, and 
many sincere wishes for his success in life. 

In person, Mr. Otis Barrow was by no means a 
striking-looking young man, and I am afraid if he had 


24 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


not been the undoubted possessor of a very handsome 
fortune, be would have found it up-hill work winning 
a smile from beauty’s fair lip. Rather below than 
above the medium height, heavily, but not clumsily, 
built, a round, honest face, in which was set a pair of 
small, light-gray eyes, keen and intelligent in expres- 
sion. Sheepish eyes when women-folk were about. 
Kindly eyes when they shone upon those he liked. 
Harsh, cruel eyes when their depths were disturbed by 
hatred or anger. Add to this a thick suit of light- 
brown hair, slightly inclined to curl, and you have the 
physique of Mr. Otis Barrow. 

He had one of the most malleable of dispositions, 
rather too much so in consideration of his sex. A dis- 
position that under happy home influences would likely 
ripen into benevolence and charity to all mankind, but 
which, under adverse circumstances, was just as likely 
to harden its possessor into that cold, unjust, suspi- 
cious character which makes a man a curse to himself 
and to all with whom he comes in contact. 

I have limned you no glowing picture of a hero, — 
but I have drawn Otis Barrow simply and truthfully 
as he was when he entered into ownership of Aland, 
and before he had entered into acquaintanceship with 
Agnes Snowe. 


TWO BREAKFAST TABLES. 


25 


, CHAPTER III. 

TWO BREAKFAST TABLES. 

On the morning after Mr. Otis Barrow had arrived 
at Aland, he and Mr. Paul Winchester, the friend and 
cousin who had accompanied him home, were seated 
at a well-appointed breakfast-table, making such havoc 
with the delicacies piled thereon as can only be made 
by two young and very hungry men whose digestive 
organs are sans peur et sans reproche. 

“ Aunt Dora” stood at the side-table dispensing the 
fragrant coffee, whose aroma filled the small breakfast- 
room, and as she poured in the thick, yellow cream, or 
dropped in one more lump of sugar, she kept up a 
running fire of answers to the questions which flowed 
in one continuous stream from the lips of the young 
men at the table. 

Although born at Aland, Otis had left it at so early 
an age that he was almost as entire a stranger in the 
neighborhood as was his cousin, Paul Winchester. 
Aunt Dora’s face was the one familiar object that had 
greeted him on his return. She it was who had nursed 
him in infancy, who had had entire charge of him from 
the moment of his mother’s death up to the hour of his 
departure for school. She it was who had watched so 
faithfully over his household interests during his long 
absence from home, and she it was who was now in- 
stalled as housekeeper and general superintendent of 
the Aland domestic cabinet. 

Otis had a great many questions to ask her about 
the neighborhood and the probable chances for social 
intercourse therein, for he had come to Aland with no 
intention of playing the recluse, but because, being of 

3 * 


26 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


a naturally domestic turn and having a keen eye to 
business, both inclination and duty seemed to dictate 
the course he had taken. 

“ And who lives in the old tumble-down concern, 
just opposite, Aunt Dora?” asked the young man, 
handing her his cup to be replenished. 

“That’s somethin’ you’ll find out soon ’nough, /’ll 
warrant,” answered old Dora, with a chuckle. “ Them’s 
the Snowe family what lives there; and that ‘ole tum- 
ble-down concern,’ as you calls it, kivers two of as 
purty likely gals as you’ll find twixt here and Orleans.” 

“ Pretty girls ! That’s promising, Paul, old fellow,” 
exclaimed the master of the house. “ Come, old lady, 
some more about the pretty girls.” 

“ Well, you see,” said Aunt Dora, smoothing down 
her apron and only too ready to enter upon her favorite 
pastime of story-telling, “ Mis’ Snowe she died purty 
much bout the time yo’ po’ blessed ma went to 
heavin, but ’stead of leavin’ one po’ little boy behind 
like yo’ ma done, she lef’ three little gals, as helpless 
a crowd, take ’em all in all, as ever I see, for old Mars’ 
Snowe ain’t very much better than a chile yet, least- 
ways so far as makin’ money, or takin’ keer of anything, 
goes. Well, he sent them gals off to boardin’-school, and 
thar they stayed until las’ year, when they all comes 
troopin’ back, ’cause Miss Agnes and Miss Becky 
had done larnt ’nuflf, and Miss Julia she ’dared she 
wouldn’t stay on thar all by herself. Me and Patience 
(thar ole mammy) is ve’y good friends, and she was a 
tellin’ me how sorry she felt for ’em when they cum’d 
home. It seems as how they never knowed, until 
they got home, but what they was as rich as Cresis. 
Thar pa had always bought ’em plenty ov fine close, 
and paid thar bills reg’lar, and give ’em money when 
they axed for it, and they’d ben sont way from home 
when they war so leetle they couldn’t remember no- 
thin’ ’bout how things looked, and when they cum’d 
home, a cole, rainy, drizzly fall day, and seed every- 
thin’ lookin’ so poor and miserable, they tuk on mightily. 


TWO BREAKFAST TABLES. 


27 


Miss Agnes she bust out cryin^ when they got into 
thar own room, and sed she’d ruther die than spend 
the rest uv her life in that hole ; and then Miss Jule — 
she’s the young ’un — bust out cryin’ too, and then Miss 
Becky — she’s the middle ’un — bust out a laughin’, and 
told them they was two little geese. And ever sence 
that blessed night she’se ben doin’ the laughin’ and 
helpin’ and workin’, and theyse ben doin’ the frettin’ and 
complainin’.” 

“ Becky is the girl for me !” cried the two young 
men, as old Dora concluded her summary of the Snowe 
affairs. 

“No, she ain’t, nuther,” was the dry rejoinder. 

“ Why not. Aunt Dora, — come ?” 

“ ’Cause she’s a rale plain-lookin’ gal, and the other 
two is the purty ones. Not but what she’s got more 
sense in one uv her little fingers than the udder two 
has in they whole bodies.” With which eulogiuD>on 
her favorite. Aunt Dora disappeared within the pantry. 

While they were being so freely discussed at Aland, 
the Misses Snowe were eating their own breakfast in 
blissful unconsciousness. Becky was seated . behind 
the cups and saucers, for what with Agnes’s haughty 
indifference and Julia’s supreme laziness, the house- 
keeping had gradually come to be considered Becky’s 
affair alone. And a notable little housekeeper she 
made, too. For although the delicious coffee at Aland 
was served in finest china, the aromatic steam that 
arose from the stone-china cups with which Becky 
was encircled was just as strong and just as fragrant, 
and the cream with which she diluted it was not one 
whit the less yellow or less rich than that which Aunt 
Dora dispensed from a silver jug. Her butter and 
her rolls were her especial boast; and when there was 
hardly an egg to be had for love or money, Becky 
always found means to induce her hens to be generous. 

“A great little manager, and a real good girl, but a 
most villainous chess-player, sir, — villainous; loses her 
queen every time, sir, every time, and would lose it 


28 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


twice over if 1 were to give her a chance,’’ is what 
Major Snowe would say of Becky if asked his private 
opinion. 

The breakfast hour at Tanglewood was never the 
most sociable of seasons, for the one good reason that 
it takes concert of action and unanimity of purpose to 
accomplish the desirable feat of making four or five 
people look exceedingly smiling and cheerful at a very 
early hour of the day, unless they are natural born 
cherubs, which the Snowes were not. 

Miss Snowe considered it incompatible with the 
dignity of the station which she ought by rights to be 
maintaining to rise at the plebeian hour of six, and 
consequently did it with a very bad grace. 

Miss Julia, who “hated” a very great many things 
in this world, “ did hate” to have to hurry through 
with her dressing in the morning without having had 
half a chance to curl her hair, so she generally man- 
aged to come straggling in when the meal was half 
over, looking exceedingly cross and exceedingly dowdy. 

Major Snowe not being equal to the exertion of talk- 
ing and eating at the same time, pretty generally took 
his meals in dumb silence. ^ 

Becky alone, fresh from early rising and brightened 
by matutinal exercise, made a regular attempt to en- 
liven the limp trio seated around the board. This 
morning, of course, the event of the day previous 
afforded a topic. 

“ Mr. Barrow has come, father.” 

“ Well,” was the monosyllabic reply vouchsafed be- 
tween the ascent of Major Snowe’s fork to his mouth 
and its descent again to his plate. 

“ Didn’t you know him when he was a little boy, 
father ?” inquired Agnes, graciously pleased to join in 
the conversation, as she had her own private reasons 
for introducing the Barrow subject. 

“ Yes.” Gulp of coffee. 

“Is he very handsome, father?” lisped Miss Julia, 
pulling out a curl from behind her ear. 


TWO BREAKFAST TABLES. 


29 


Humph !” was all her father vouchsafed in reply 
to this decidedly feminine interrogatory. 

“I wouldn’t make a goose of myself, Julia,” snapped 
Miss Snowe, — “that is, if I coufd help myself. You 
know father has never laid eyes on Mr. Barrow since 
he was six years old, and now you want him fo tell 
you whether or not he is vary handrsome.” Imitating 
Julia’s drawl to perfection. 

Julia placidly resumed the drinking of her tea, and 
a remon strati ve, “ Oh, Aggie,” from Becky, was the 
sole comment on this aroiable interlude. 

“ I suppose you will call on him, father ?” pursued 
Miss Snowe, turning again to her parent. 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ It is certainly your duty to do so,” she continued, 
impressively. 

“ What a keen sense of duty you have suddenly de- 
veloped!” sneered Julia, by way of a Boland for her 
sister’s Oliver. 

“ How old is he, father ?” asked Becky, anxious to 
prevent a reply on Agnes’s part. 

“Twenty-one.” 

“ What a pity, Ag ! — -just exactly your age ; he ought 
to be a little older, you know ; just ever so little.” With 
which innuendo Miss Julia pushed her chair back from 
the table and sauntered lazily out of the room. 

Dignity (when she wasn’t too mad) was Miss Snowe’s 
role. And she tried to make up for the lack of it in 
character by an elaborate assumption of it in manner. 
As Julia was one of the “things” which she professed 
to consider vastly beneath her notice, she treated the 
most of her little childish pricks with silent contempt; 
hence that last Parthian dart was left to rankle uncom- 
mented upon. 


30 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES, 


CHAPTER lY. 

MAN- TRAPS. 

For two weeks after the installment of a resident 
master at Aland, things went on as usual on both sides 
of Silver Lake. 

Young Barrow, on his side of the water, found 
ample occupation in riding around the place in the 
morning, visiting his quarters, and holding prolonged 
interviews with his overseer, as a necessary preliminary 
toward making himself thoroughly cognizant of his 
own business. After a late dinner he would order 
round the dog-cart, and he and his cousin would go 
bowling along for miles and miles over roads that were 
wonderfully good roads for a swampy country ; or, if 
the day was favorable, the little sail-boat was almost 
sure to be seen gliding gently hither and thither, in an 
aimless, sans-souci fashion, managed by one of the 
two, while the other lay stretched out upon the seat, 
in lazy enjoyment of the gentle motion and a good 
cigar. 

On the other side, the sight of this gleaming white 
sail was almost sure to awaken in Miss Snowe a lively 
sense of the duty her father owed to society in general 
and to this wealthy young bachelor in particular. 

“ I declare, father,’’ she would say, “ Mr. Barrow 
will think he has moved into the country of the ‘ Ya- 
hoos.’ Here has he been two whole weeks, and not a 
soul been to welcome him back to his old home.” 

Major Snowe yielded to this continued dropping 
after awhile, and actually mustered the energy to call 
on his new neighbor. 

“ And remember, father,” sly Agnes put in, as she 
performed the unusually filial office of adjusting his 


MAN- TRAPS. 


31 


neck-tie before he started off, — “remember that bare 
courtesy demands your inviting them over to tea for 
an early evening, — say some time this week.” 

“ What does Becky say to that ?” asked Major 
Snowe, before compromising himself by a decided 
promise. 

“ Why, of course, father, it is her wish as much as 
mine,” was the equivocating reply. “You don’t sup- 
pose, do you, that 1 have any personal or private rea- 
son for wishing to be polite to these young men ?” 

“ Oh, no, of course not, my dear,” said her father, 
with a faint twinkle in his eye. 

“ I only wish,” resumed the young lady, “ to let 
them see that there ai'e some people in the neighbor- 
hood who know what hospitality means.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course, my dear.” And the old gen- 
tleman descended the rickety stairs and entered his 
rickety boat, and had himself rowed across the lake to 
renew his acquaintance with the son of one of the best 
of his auld lang syne friends. 

He found Mr. Barrow an ordinary-looking young 
man, plain of features, but frank and honest in manners, 
— manners characterized by that easy independence 
which a full purse is pretty apt to insure its possessor, 
be he who or what he may. 

He found Mr. Winchester a tall, languid, fair young 
man, highly polished in manners and elegant in con- 
versation. He presented rather a contrast in appear- 
ance to his cousin, who was decidedly “ dumpy” and 
“ bluff,” and his circumstances were equally at variance 
with those of the rich master of Aland, for Paul Win- 
chester was only a struggling young barrister, who did 
not own one cent. But at heart the two cousins pos- 
sessed many traits in common. They were both warm- 
hearted and affectionate by nature. They were both 
men of strictly honorable principles, with this differ- 
ence, that, whereas with Otis Barrow to act honor- 
ably was more an instinct/than a principle, with Paul 
Winchester it was instinct strengthened by careful 


32 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


parental training and enforced bj bright home ex- 
ample. They were both possessed of more than a 
modicum of temper; but whereas Paul had been 
taught to curb his passions until he had them under 
that complete control which is a sine qua non to the 
perfect gentleman, my poor Otis had never learned 
to do anything of the sort. He had had his own 
way ever since his father died ; he had been bowed 
to and cringed to, as people will bow and cringe to 
other people who are rich, until he had come to think 
that he had something like a presumptive right to ex- 
press his opinions with blunt candor, and to get into a 
passion and rage around generally when occasion 
called for it. Being naturally, however, as I have be- 
fore told you, rather good-natured than otherwise, these 
displays were not of such very frequent occurrence. 

Major Snowe enjoyed his visit rather more than he 
had anticipated ; so, when he got up to go home, he 
baited his daughter’s man-trap with suavity and em- 
pressement. 

“ So now, my lads, remember, you are to take tea 
with us on Thursday ; we can promise you nothing 
very gay, for I am but an old fossil myself, and my three 
lassies, poor things, are plain country girls, whose ex- 
perience of the gay world you have just quitted is so 
limited that they won’t even be able to talk to you 
about it.” 

His invitation to tea was accepted with alacrity ; 
his slighting mention of himself as an “ old fossil” was 
politely deprecated, his unflattering description of his 
“poor lassies” negatived stoutly, and himself bowed 
into his boat by Messrs. Barrow and Winchester, who 
returned to the house in that state of elation conse- 
quent upon something having happened in a dull 
country house, and the still brighter prospect of the 
something that was to happen on Thursday evening. 

When Major Snowe reached home and informed his 
daughters that on Thursday Aland and Tanglewood 
were to break bread together, in token of amity and 


MAN-TRAPS. 


33 


good will for all time to come, there was quite a flutter 
of agitation in three fair bosoms, while three distinct 
trains of thought went trooping through three young 
heads. 

Thought Agnes : “What shall I wear? I am de- 
termined to fascinate this Croesus. It looks as if 
Providence had sent him right into this God-forsaken 
region to lift me from this hateful, hateful life of pov- 
erty and deprivation. I wonder if he is fearfully un- 
presentable ? It is evident father doesn’t think much 
of his looks. I don’t care. If he was a hunchback 
and a cripple ; if he was blind in one eye and squinted 
in the other ; if he was a brute in temper, and hadn’t 
an ounce of brain, I’d marry him, — marry him for his 
gold ! gold ! gold I” And all this without one tremor 
of the full red lip, or slightest shrinking of the shapely 
form, in revolt at the unwomanly decision that was 
soon to be acted up to, in cold blood, by a young girl 
whose youth and comely face were sadly out of keeping 
with her old and calculating soul. 

Thought Becky : “ What on earth have I got fit 
to receive two strange men in ?” I beg you not to 
think my Becky was one of those anomalous creat- 
ures, a female who did not care for dress. “But, then, 
what difference does it make what I put on ? Ag will 
look so handsome and make herself so fascinating, as 
she always does to young men, that if I was to put on 
a Lowell’s dress and a gunny-sack for an apron they 
wouldn’t even know I was in the room. What on 
earth shall I have for supper? Oh, I do wish the 
strawberries would be so good as to ripen by Thurs- 
day! There are almost enough ripe right now. I 
must tell everybody to let them alone.” 

Thought Julia: “I know, just as well as if Aggie 
had come out and said so, that she has made up her 
mind to catch Mr. Barrow. How does she know, 
though, that he’s catchable ? How does she know 
that he isn’t already engaged to be married ? But, 
then, he’s too young for that to be very probable. 


34 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Why, he just isn’t younger than Aggie’s self. How 
does she know what style he prefers ?” And here 
Miss Julia gave the mental preference to languishing 
eyes over haughty eyes ; to clinging, drooping females 
over commanding, scornful beauties, etc. The result 
of her cogitations was the conclusion that the field 
was open to competitors yet awhile, and that it be- 
hooved her to be alert and — to have her blue organdie 
pressed out. 

And now, my dear young lady readers, please don’t 
lay my book down in disgust, and declare that “ you 
never heard of such sickening creatures in your life, 
that they are not deserving the name of women, that 
they are bad, bold manoeuvrers, who deserve the 
scorn and contempt of all true women and the rest of 
mankind.” I know you never saw such creatures, my 
dears, for they exist only in the brains of story-tellers 
(and big story-tellers at that), and I know they ought 
to writhe under your well-merited contempt, my dear 
Miss Particularity Prudence; and as soon as that one 
among you who can prove herself entirely free from 
like weakness or foible shall cast a stone at them, I 
will give them orders to writhe in the most becoming 
fashion. 


THE TRAP IS SPRUHG. 


35 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE TRAP IS SPRUNG. 

Thursday evening found Miss Snowe in such an 
unpromising frame of mind that any one, unacquainted 
with the resources of her sex, would have augured ill 
for the possibility of her making a favorable impres- 
sion upon the Coming Man. 

After their early dinner, she and Miss Julia Snowe 
had retired to the bedroom they occupied in common 
to decide upon the great McFlimsey question. 

As prudent Julia had had the blue organdie pressed 
and fluted the day before, she could afford to throw 
herself upon the bed by way of resting ( I ) and in- 
suring the proper amount of carnation to her lips and 
brightness to her eyes when the important hour should 
come. So there she lay, with one dimpled hand under 
her head, watching her sister’s movements, with a little 
malicious smile at the evident perplexity of spirit under 
which that young lady was laboring. 

Agnes had been standing holding the doors of her 
armoire open with both hands, looking into its sparsely- 
filled compartments with evident disgust. She was 
halting between the respective merits of a gray grena- 
dine, with blue trimmings, that had a coffee stain on 
one width, and a bright new buff cambric, that was 
“ perfectly hideous, and only intended for a mulatto 
complexion.” Soiled gentility carried the day, and the 
grenadine was jerked down from its peg as if Miss 
Snowe owed it a personal grudge instead of a debt of 
gratitude, for having retained its good looks so long. 

This thing of being as poor as a church mouse, yet 
having to dress as a lady, is rather exhausting to one’s 
powers of invention,” she exclaimed, pettishly, as she 


36 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


swung the doors of her unoffending armoire to with a 
bang. 

“ Gently, ma belle, or you’ll get that fair brow of 
yours into such a pucker that strangers might set you 
down for a cross old maid instead of a sweet sugar 
lump of. a lassie as you are,” laughed Julia, saucily. 

She was in a very good humor this evening, for the 
blue organdie was so becoming, and the certainty of 
looking well has such a humanizing effect upon a 
woman that she can afford to smile sweetly over the 
direst misfortunes — of another. 

A sniff of disdain was Miss Snowe’s only retort. 

“ I say, Aggie,” continued her younger sister, “ if 
you don’t catch this goldfish, I shall certainly try to 
do so myself. Just imagine the felicity of being mis- 
tress of Aland, and having as many dresses as one 
wants, all guiltless of coffee stains, and going to the 
Springs in summer and New Orleans in winter, and 
being waited on at every turn, and being able to lie in 
bed up to any unearthly hour you please in the morn- 
ing ; — oh, heavenly !” And at this pictured acme of 
human felicity. Miss Julia Snowe clasped her little 
hands in ecstasy. 

Agnes took no note of her. Her calm, gray eyes 
had wandered to the open window, and were gazing 
into space. She was pondering. 

What? 

W’'as she making a mental inventory of the human 
blessings categorically suggested by Julia, and adding 
them up to see if the sum total brought perfect happi- 
ness ? Was there entering into that cold young heart of 
hers some vague suspicion that a little love, a little 
human sympathy, must be added unto all these things 
before genuine happiness could be secured? Was the 
great coming event casting its shadow before, and bid- 
ding her pause and think well before taking the irrev- 
ocable leap ? No. 

She was wondering if there was any way on earth 
of hiding that coffee stain on the side width of her 


THE TRAP IS SPRUNG. 


3t 


dress, and she had solved the mighty problem by de- 
ciding to wear a tiny little Swiss apology for an apron, 
all ruffles and blue bows, which, besides, she added 
mentally, “ has a smack of the domestic about it which 
may please him, however abhorrent it is to me.’’ 

So, while Becky, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” 
was busy in the back gallery helping wash the real 
China tea-set and the cut-glass goblets, which were 
always saved for company, and printing the golden pat 
of butter until every cut in the hollow wooden pine- 
apple was faithfully reproduced on the smooth, yield- 
ing surface, and picking the motes from the strawber- 
ries, and running out into the kitchen every now and 
then to see if “ her rolls were’ rising,” and her flannel 
cakes were not souring, the beauties of Tanglewood 
were arraying their fair persons with dainty precision, 
and arranging their two heads of hair in the most be- 
wilderingly becoming fashion, and sticking bows here 
and flowers there, producing by their artistic touches 
such a tout-ensemble that Messrs. Winchester and 
Barrow must needs be something firmer and harder 
than two gay, light-hearted young men, not to sur- 
render at first sight. 

The sun was just going down in a perfect blaze of 
golden glory as the pretty sail-boat from Aland, con- 
taining the above-mentioned young gentlemen, glided 
with gentle grace close up to the shore in front of Tan- 
glewood, and our two young men sprang lightly ashore, 
gave one glance at their polished boots to see that they 
had sustained no injury in the leap, gave each a down- 
ward pull to their white vests, raised their hats, and 
gave a furtive dig in the dark by way of improving the 
looks of their heads, and then marched boldly forward, 
utterly unconscious that four bright eyes were peep- 
ing at them slyly from the Cyclopean window in the 
roof. 

“Oh, how handsome!” whispered Julia, pinching 
Agnes on the arm. 

“ Yes, but of course,” said Agnes, in the tone of a 

4 * 


38 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES, 


person suffering under a great and unmerited personal 
wrong, that one is Mr. Winchester.’’ 

Then they left the window, took each one more 
searching glance into the mirror, and glided gracefully 
down-stairs to the work of destruction. 

Now, as not one of these three yi^ng ladies, or the 
two young men, were geniuses of any description, as 
not one of them were familiar with either Hebrew or 
Sanscrit, as they went neither to the Nile nor the Niger 
for subjects for social chat, I would really be ashamed 
to write down verbatim the commonplaces that passed 
between these five commonplaces. Three of the party 
got along very elegantly and gracefully : these three 
were Miss Snowe, Miss Julia, and Mr. Winchester; 
but poor Mr. Barrow, who had never spoken half a 
dozen words to a young and pretty woman in his whole 
life, suddenly found himself minus a tongue or an idea, 
and wondering, pettishly, “ where in the devil Paul 
had picked up so much small talk.” He got along a 
little better with Becky, but it was only a few moments 
before tea was announced that she made her appear- 
ance. I think it was because poor Becky looked so 
very red in the face, and so flurried and worried (her 
rolls were a failure, reader !), and seemed altogether to 
be pretty much -of his own mind about the vanity of 
all things here below, that he felt drawn toward her, 
seeing which. Miss Agnes Snowe felt drawn toward 
him, and exerted herself for his special and private 
entertainment with the most charming assiduity and 
triumphant success. 

The absence of the rolls that had been burnt in the 
baking was not noticed in the presence of the other 
delicacies that graced Becky’s table, and she had the 
pleasure of seeing their visitors enjoy her viands like 
men, while the pretty creatures opposite them nibbled 
them like mice. 

The evening, like all other evenings, came to an end, 
and the sail-boat from Aland pushed out from the 
Tanglewood landing, bearing with it two young men 


THE TR4P IS SPRUNG. 


39 


as desperately and hopelessly in love as two poor mis- 
guided young wretches ever were. 

As it glided out of sight, Miss Snowe turned from 
the veranda with a slight shiver of disgust, murmuring, 
audibly, “A golden calf;’’ adding, inaudibly, “why 
couldn't the other one have held the purse ?” 

As it glided oirt of hearing, the two young men 
uttered the single comment, — 

“ She is glorious !” 

She — and there were three of them 1 

“ Miss Julia would be a beauty if she had no sister 
Agnes,” said Mr. Barrow. 

“ Too much on the Lydia Languish order,” answered 
Paul. “ Give me a light, Ote.” And they paused in 
their criticisms long enough to light two cigars. 

“ I say, Paul,” resumed Mr. Barrow, after a few 
moments spent in getting his cigar well under way, 
“ I expect Miss Becky is a mighty good girl.” 

“ Who questions Miss Rebecca Snowe’s excellence ?” 
asked Paul, sententiously. 

“ She’s one of the domestic sort, you know,” said 
Otis. 

“ Vide Aunt Dora,” laughed Paul. 

“But I say, Paul, don’t you think it’s a pity she’s 
so deuced plain ?” 

“ Not to put too fine a point on it,” replied Mr. Win- 
chester, laughingly, “ Miss Rebecca Snowe is certainly 
not a beautiful woman.” 

My poor Becky I They say “ virtue is its own re- 
ward.” I hope you will find it so, for that is the only 
reward you are likely to receive in a world where men 
are so unreasonable as to object to the crimson flush 
that is unavoidable so long as things have to be cooked 
over the fire, or who are ready to quarrel with a 
woman because, forsooth, she doesn’t look as serenely 
smiling and coolly calm, after a long day of petty 
housekeeping trials, as if she had just emerged from a 
bower of roses where she had nothing to do but sip 
nectar and smile on languishing lovers. 


40 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


CHAPTER YL 

NOTHING NEW. 

Things progressed between the two houses of Aland 
and Tanglewood just as might have been expected 
from the result of the first visit, only the “ Golden 
Calf, ’’Reversing the position of his theological ances- 
tor, \yas the worshiper instead of the worshiped. 

The misfortune of it was, that Mr. Barrow and his 
cousin Paul had both been unwise enough to fall in 
love with the same lady, a fact of which both were 
fully aware, as was indicated by a conversation which 
took place between them one evening, about two 
months after their first visit to their fair neighbors. 

- Mr. Winchester had just announced to Mr. Barrow 
that he considered his holiday had been rather a long 
one, and he should start for his Northern home and 
business some time during the next week. They were 
sitting on the veranda at Aland smoking, and Mr. Bar- 
row puffed away in silence for a few moments, without 
replying ; then he spoke as if he had been making up 
his mind to something. 

“You are not going away without speaking out to 
her, Paul 

“ Speaking out to whom asked Paul, deceitfully. 

' “ T-o Miss Snowe,” replied the master of Aland, fling- 
ing his half-smoked cigar impatiently over the banisters. 
“Curse it, Paul,’^ he continued, excitedly, “don’t let 
us try to make fools of each other any longer. You 
know that I love her, and I know that you love her ; 
but I’ll be d — d if I can tell whether or not she cares a 
straw for either one of us. Sometimes I feel certain she 
cares more than a little for you ; then, when I’ve made 


NOTHING NEW. 


41 


up my mind to that, and have begun to turn my atten- 
tions toward Rebecca the domestic, my Lady Agnes 
all of a sudden turns ice to you, and warm, rosy wine 
to me, until my head and heart are full of her again, 
and I turn from the idea of ever courting any other 
woman with loathing. So there’s but one sensible way 
for us to settle it, old fellow. We might fall out and 
go through the motion of cutting each other’s throats, 
by way of satisfying our spite, but I’ve no notion of 
falling out with the best friend I have on the earth 
for any woman living. I love Agnes Snowe. I don’t 
pretend to say I don’t, and I want her for my wife. 
Gad, though, wouldn’t she look like a queen dressed in 
silks and diamonds ? So do you love her, and so do 
you want her for a wife, and, for all I know to the con- 
trary, your chances of getting ‘yes’ for answer are 
forty times as good as mine, so we’ll row over there 
to-morrow, Paul, my boy, and I’ll talk to Miss Julia, 
while you ask Agnes Snowe if she will consent to be- 
come Mrs. Winchester. If she says ‘yes,’ your face 
will tell me quick enough ; if she says ‘no,’ come and 
lay your hand upon my shoulder, which will mean, 
‘ Now, old boy, go and try your luck.’ I’l promise not 
to be cross, Paul, if you’re the lucky one, and you must 
promise the same by me.” 

“ That’s all fair enough,” said Paul, as Mr. Barrow 
concluded this business-like settlement of their love 
difficulty ; “ and you may rest assured, Otis, that what- 
ever the result may be you and I are still friends.” 

They clasped hands on this and dropped the subject 
for that night. 

Prosaic creatures ! What a thrilling chapter they 
might have given me material for if they had only 
gotten up some sort of tragic excitement about .it, in- 
stead of bringing their cool, nineteenth-century brains 
to bear upon the subject I 

So to Tangle wood our two unheroic heroes went the 
evening following the conversation just related, deter- 
mined to put an end to all suspense. Luckily for their 


42 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


schemes, they found Becky pinned down to the chess- 
table, opposite hei* father, who sat there looking as 
complacent as a fat old spider who had just succeeded 
in webbing a poor struggling fly. 

As the evening was charming, Mr. Winchester pro- 
posed a stroll to Miss Snowe and Miss Julia, a propo- 
sition which they acceded to with alacrity. As per 
contract, Mr. Barrow appointed himself Miss Julia’s 
cavalier, and marched off with her so briskly and eagerly 
that they were soon far in advance of the more stately 
couple in the rear. This looked so much like design, 
and Mr. Barrow seemed making such unusual exer- 
tions to appear particularly interested in Miss Julia’s 
platitudes, that Miss Snowe brought her pearly teeth 
together with a click that boded ill for any wild dreams 
in which poor Julia might be indulging. 

Paul Winchester had his chance, and he made the 
best of it. Without any of that ridiculous hemming 
and hawing, and fumbling of hats, and twisting of hand- 
kerchiefs which converts the most sensible of men into 
grinning idiots during the throes of proposal, he told 
his love quietly and earnestly, telling her everything 
relating to his financial affairs manfully and honestly. 
He told her that he had nothing but his practice to de- 
pend upon, and as he had been but recently admitted 
to the bar, it might be years before he could promise 
to support her in any better style than that in which 
she was then living. But, if she loved him, he hoped 
that would not weigh too heavily against him. He 
should always.be able to make her perfectly comforta- 
ble, but one so fair as she had a right to demand more 
than bare comfort, and if God spared his life long 
enough she should have more as his wife. 

Agnes listened to him very patiently. She was 
sorry when he stopped speaking. She loved this man 
as dearly as she could love anything, and she loved 
the sound of his voice. Above all things was it pleas- 
ant to hear that voice pouring out protestations of 
love for herself. But he had dwelt too honestly upon 


NOTniNO NEW. 


43 


his poverty. If her heart had been breaking for love 
of him she would not have married him, poor as he 
was, and it might be years before his fortunes changed. 
So, although the hand resting upon his arm trembled 
with emotion so real and strong that it astonished her- 
self, she thanked him with a cool, steady voice for the 
honor done her, and regretted that she had nothing 
more than friendship to repay him with, etc. 

Then they quickened their steps until they came up 
with Mr. Barrow and Julia, who were resting on a log, 
and Mr. Winchester, laying his hand heavily upon his 
cousin’s shoulder, said, quietly, “Come, Otis, we are 
keeping the ladies out too late.” 

Otis started violently as that hand was laid upon his 
shoulder, for he had hardly dared hope for this turn 
of affairs, and now that his chance had come to him he 
felt much more like breaking into a fleet run in the 
opposite direction than offering Miss Snowe his arm. 
But she, knowing that it would be extremely awk- 
ward to walk back with Mr. Winchester after what had 
passed between them, settled the difficulty by a skillful 
manoeuvre which placed Julia next Mr. Winchester and 
herself and Mr. Barrow together. 

He managed to mumble out a proposal before they 
were half-way to the house, but he did it so ungrace- 
fully, and got so red in the face, and made such a goose 
of himself generally, that Miss Snowe had to keep her 
mind’s eye fixed steadily upon the golden fortune he was 
offering her to enable her to hide her supreme disgust. 
But she did hide it admirably, for after the poor, bun- 
gling fellow had succeeded in conveying to her distinctly 
his desire to make her Mrs. Barrow, she looked calmly, 
nay, even sweetly, into his face, and propiised him to be 
his wife and to love him and cherish him, and all that 
sort of thing, till death them did part. So Otis Bar- 
row was made happy; so Agnes Snowe was made 
rich. 

We are apt to associate all coldness, and selfishness, 
and heartlessness with accumulated years, when a 


u 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


thorough knowledge of life as it is has chilled the 
warm current of youthful affection ; when experience 
of men has made us look upon unselfishness as a species 
of verdancy, and when disappointment heaped upon 
disappointment has turned the milk of human kind- 
ness into bitterest gall ; yet here was a creature young 
and fair — so fair and so young — whose soul was as 
selfish, whose brain was as calculating, whose heart 
was as hardened as a world-worn cynic of seventy 
winters. 


CHAPTER YIL 

WHAT EVERVBODY THOUGHT. 

Notwithstanding his cousin^-s urgent entreaties to 
the contrary, Mr. Winchester per^sted in leaving 
Aland at the time he had settled upon. 

Mr. Barrow was both astonished and relieved to 
see him bear his disappointment 4bout Agnes so 
quietly. He felt sure that Paul had never really 
loved her, for he knew he could not have been rejected 
by her and yet have shown so little regret as did Paul. 

The truth was, Mr. Winchester had made a discovery 
that very much assisted him to bear up under his dis- 
appointment. Miss Snowe herself, in fact, had kindly 
applied the healing lotion. 

Without having any more vanity than usually falls 
to the lot of handsome men, Mr. Winchester was 
firmly convinced that although Agnes Snowe had said 
“no” to him and “yes” to his cousin, she really cared 
more for him, the rejected, than she did for her fiance. 
He had been convinced of this by a thousand and one 
little things almost too slight to be described. He 
had watched her face well when in conversation with 
his cousin, and never once had he seen aught in those 


WJIAT EVERYBODY THOUGHT. 


45 


cold gray eyes of hers but polite and forced attention. 
He had watched her acceptance of the beautiful bou- 
quets that poor Otis had caused the Aland gardener to 
construct for her pleasure, and had seen her lay them 
carelessly upon a window-sill or table to die of neglect, 
while the solitary spray of mignonette or jasmine, 
which he had sometimes taken as a votive offering, 
was sure to find its way into her hair, or breastpin, or 
belt. He knew that he could bring a look of softer 
meaning and deeper interest into those firm eyes with 
his lightest word than poor Otis’s most ardent protes- 
tations would ever be rewarded with. He had seen a 
soft pink womanly flush mount into her cheek at his 
compliments, when she would turn oft* an attempt at 
worded homage from her future husband with a little 
derisive laugh. 

Therefore, when with all these mental lights shining 
upon the subject, she said “no” to him and “yes” to 
Mr. Barrow, Mr. Winchester was forced to the con- 
clusion that Miss Snowe was a mercenary young 
woman, who preferred “a stalled ox and hatred there- 
with to a dinner of herbs where love was.” Seeing 
which, Mr. Winchester lost respect for Miss Snowe, 
losing which, Mr. Winchester’s love fell to zero ; for 
he held to the old-fashioned theory that love, to be 
genuine and to last, must be founded upon respect. 
The consequence of all which was that, so far from 
feeling resentful toward his cousin, or envying him, 
his heart was filled with the profoundest pity, some of 
which found unpremeditated expression as he bade 
Mr. Barrow good-by. He held both his cousin’s 
hands in his, and looked down into the plain, honest 
face of the master of Aland with a look of such solemn 
import that Mr. Barrow winced perceptibly under it. 

“ Oh, I say, Paul, why in the devil are you looking 
at me as if I was to be hung to-morrow, and you had 
come to receive my dying confession ?” 

Mr. Winchester laughed. “Excuse me, Otis, I was 
5 


46 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


utterly unconscious of looking so lugubrious. Good- 
by ! God bless you, and ” 

“ And what 

And make you as happy as you expect to be and 
as you richly deserve to be.” 

“ Thank you, Paul. But remember, you promise 
to be best man.” 

I have promised, and I will be here. You’ll write 
to me in the mean while, and I shall know by your let- 
ters whether your Dulcinea is treating you like a mouse 
or like a man during the trying period of courtship.” 

With which they parted. 

On the memorable evening when Mr. Barrow had 
made his intentions known, he had asked Agnes if he 
should speak to her father when they returned to the 
house. Miss Snowe inaugurated a new order of things. 
She simply told him that she preferred telling her 
father herself, and then coolly requested him to let 
that be his last visit until that day week. Her object 
in making this request was to preclude the possibility 
of another meeting with Mr. Winchester. She knew 
that the day fixed for his departure was only four days 
off. Mr. Barrow consented reluctantly, and was seen 
no more during the specified time. 

Miss Snowe’s method of telling her father was char- 
acteristic in the extreme. It was a point of religion 
with her never to be in a hurry about anything. It 
was her turn at the chess-table. She played the regu- 
lation number of games — three — with her usual placid 
indifference, and got beaten with her usual equanimity, 
and, when the last game was finished, she proceeded 
to place the chessmen back in the box with the most 
methodical precision. “ Father,” she began, in a cold, 
business-like voice, fitting the queen in spoon-fashion 
to the king as she spoke, “I have made up my mind 
to marry Mr. Barrow.” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed her father. “ I rather thought 
from what I had observed that you preferred the other 
young man.” 


WHAT EVERYBODY THOUGHT. 4 ^ 

“ So I do, infinitely, replied the young lady, laying 
a pawn heels downward on the queen’s back. 

“ Then why not marry him, my child?” asked her 
father, who, whatever else he was, certainly was not 
mercenary. 

“ Because, father, he is as poor as I am, and it 
would be the act of a simpleton, instead of a sensible 
woman, to marry without some guarantee that she 
was bettering her condition.” 

Major Snowe bowed to the superior wisdom of his 
daughter, and began mumbling some commonplace 
hopes about her being happy with the man of her 
choice and about love frequently following upon the 
heels of respect, etc,, in which he was brought to a 
sudden stand-still by the filial request that “ he wouldn’t 
talk any more nonsense.” 

“You talk, father, as if I was going to marry him 
because I loved him. When I do not, and you know I 
do not, and he knows 1 do not. When, in fact, I hate 
him, — that is, I don’t now, but I will when the thing 
is irrevocable.” 

“Why, then, in the name of Heaven, marry him, 
girl ?” asked her father, uttering a feeble protest against 
such worldliness. 

“ Because,” returned Agnes, springing vehemently 
to her feet, in one grand burst of nature, “ because I 
am poor and he is rich. Because, although I hate him 
abundantly, I hate this poverty-stricken existence more. 
Because I love the beautiful things of this world, and 
he alone offers me the means of procuring them. That 
is why I marry him, and I think it absolute nonsense 
for any one who knows him and knows me to talk any 
sentimental twaddle about hearts and darts, and loves 
and doves.” 

Thus snubbed, the vanquished champion of the old- 
fashioned notions about married life sat silent, chewing 
the cud of solemn meditation, and conscious of a dim 
sort of pity for the poor, rich young man who was 
soon to deprive him of this domestic treasure. 


48 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Becky received the information of her sister’s en- 
gagement with very little show of gladness. She, 
too, had been observant for the last few months. She 
had observed the same things and come to the same 
conclusion that Paul Winchester had. She believed 
that Agnes loved the man she had rejected, and cared 
not a rush for the man she had accepted. 

Now, in the bottom of Rebecca Snowe’s warm, true 
heart she loathed everything that savored of the insin- 
cere or hypocritical. She believed that Agnes was 
doing violence to her real feelings in this marriage, 
and Becky would not perjure her honest lips by offer- 
ing congratulations when she felt like uttering remon- 
strances. But she knew the one would be as useless 
as the other was vain ; so she contented herself with 
uttering a sincere hope that her sister would be happy. 

Julia received the announcement with a perfect burst 
of girlish delight. She sniffed a wedding afar, and her 
feminine soul burned for the action. A wedding meant 
new dresses, and flowers, and light, and life, and people, 
and partners, and, probably, “ catches,” and then, 
maybe, when Agnes was married, and had everything 
on earth she wanted, she might grow amiable (as 
people do, you know, when they have everything 
they want), and she might take her traveling, or let 
her stay at Aland, or do something or other for her. 
At any rate, Agnes was a personage to be treated 
with marked respect from this time out. 

The next person to be told was Aunt Patience, who 
had stood them in place of mother ever since they 
were all three left little, crying, troublesome orphans. 
She dismissed the subject with a short but cutting 
sarcasm. She raised her withered old face until she 
could look Agnes straight in the eye, — 

You’se a purty lookin’ specimen to be thinkin’ of 
marryin’, an’ you couldn’ darn a hole in a sock nor 
make a shirt, not ef your life ’pended on it.” 

Agnes gave an uneasy, little laugh at this summary 
of her disqualifications for the estate matrimonial, and 


WHAT EVERYBODY THOUGHT. 


49 


wondered, with an inward shudder, if he would expect 
her to do such horrid things. 

On his side, Mr. Barrow had but one human being 
to impart the mighty, news to. That was to old Dora, 
his whilom nurse and present housekeeper. He told it 
with the air of a man who fully expected to be con- 
gratulated upon having achieved something great and 
glorious. He was somewhat disappointed when Aunt 
Dora’s sole reply to his rhapsody was a monosyllabic 

Humph I” 

. ‘‘ Come, old lady, what are you humphing at 

“Nothing, Mars’ Otis, savin’ ’taint no news to me.” 

“ Isn’t news ! why, it is to me.” 

“ Maybe so,” replied old Dora, stolidly ; “ but I 
knowed it from the fus’ moment you put your foot 
into de boat to go to Tanglewood, for I never yit seed a 
purty gal set out to fool a young man but what she 
’ceeded, ef he’d only keep goin’ in sight of her purty 
face often ’nuff.” 

“ Come, Aunt Dora, you’re cross because you think 
somebody’s coming to take your place at the head of 
things.” 

Aunt Dora answered this with a disdainful toss of 
her head that threatened the overthrow of her turban. 
“ Take my place I Lord love your soul, my chile, ef 
you think Miss Agnis Snowe can ever fill dis nigger’s 
place I Now, ef ’twas Miss Becker, I might be skeered ; 
but as ’tis, Dora Dilson ’specs to have her hands fuller’n 
ever when Mrs. Agnis Barrow steps ’cross dis thrish- 
old !” 

Mr. Barrow laughed heartily at this diatribe, and 
told the old woman that she was a bigoted old goose, 
and forewarned her that she’d better not come any of her 
grandiloquence over Mrs. Barrow when she did arrive. 

Dora hoped she would always remember what was 
due to her master’s wife and the mistress of Aland, 
and closed her mouth forever on the subject, leaving 
her young master in undisturbed enjoyment of his 
Fool’s Paradise. 


5 * 


50 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

ACTUALLY MARRIED. 

The wedding-day was fixed for the beginning of 
February. 

Julia’s first disappointment came to her in the an- 
nouncement that it was to be strictly private. 

•Private weddings were among the many things she 
“ did hate.” She would much rather attend a funeral, 
for there everybody was expected to look at each 
other like so many owls, and did it accordingly ; but 
at private weddings people were expected to feel gay, 
or, at least, to act gayly, without the slightest provoca- 
tion to hilarity ; and she could no more do it than she 
could dance the round dances in a graveyard on a 
tombstone, with a wet blanket wrapped round her for 
a ball dress. 

But Agnes was inexorable. She had the good taste 
not to desire to make the contrast between her poverty 
as Miss Snowe and her coming grandeur as Mrs. 
Barrow brought too startlingly before the eyes of the 
world by inviting them to witness her transition from 
the one to the other. 

There was to be no one invited but her own imme- 
diate family, Mr. Winchester, and the family physician, 
Dr. Lombard, an individual whom, by the way, I have 
been entirely too tardy about introducing. Wait until 
the wedding is over, doctor, and I will hand you down 
to posterity in a chapter all to yourself. 

Time rolled on apace and brought the fateful evening. 

Becky had made the bride-cake herself, and more 
than one tear had rolled furtively off the end of her 
nose and dropped into the spongy batter, for she had 
made it with a heavy heart. She hated this worldly, 


ACTUALLY MARRIED, 


51 


loveless marriage ; and the nearer the time approached 
for its consummation, the worse she hated it. She 
had fully made up her mind to utter one honest protest 
against it before the irrevocable words were spoken ; 
but Agnes had been acting very strangely all day long. 
She had locked her bedroom door immediately after 
breakfast, and had refused to admit any one on any 
pretext whatever. She wanted to be alone, she said, 
and she wished they would leave her in peace. At 
dinner-time Becky carried a cup of coffee up to her 
door with her own hands, and pleaded for admittance 
with sweet sisterly earnestness. 

“ Aggie dear, let me come in and sit with you 
awhile ; I have something on my mind that 1 must say 
to you before eight o’clock comes. You’ll be.leaving 
us so soon, Aggie, — don’t be cross with me to-night.” 

Agnes opened the door wide enough to reach out 
her hand for the coffee. Her face was as colorless as 
marble. “ Thank you, Becky ; but I can’t talk with 
any one just now.” Then she closed the door in her 
sister’s face and locked it. 

Becky sat down on a trunk in the hall and indulged 
in a good old-fashioned cry. Then she got up, wiped 
her eyes, and went down-stairs to see if she could find 
something more to do. She was restless and miserable, 
and idleness only made her more so. 

The ceremony was to be performed at eight. At 
seven o’clock she received a message from Agnes re- 
questing her presence. She had already completed her 
own simple toilet, and was assisting Julia, when the 
bride’s message was brought to her. When she en- 
tered the bedroom, that had been the sole witness that 
day of a fierce struggle within the bosom of Agnes 
Snowe, Becky paused and uttered an involuntary 
tribute of admiration to her sister’s surpassing loveli- 
ness. “ Oh, Aggie, you are superb !” 

“ Thank you,” said Miss Snowe, coolly. I’ve sent 
for you to get you to arrange my wreath and veil, 
Becky, — that is the only part of my toilet I find it im- 


52 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


possible to accomplish by myself; and then, while you 
are fixing them, you can tell me what it is you must 
say before eight o’clock.” Then she seated herself in 
the arm-chair, before her mirror, carefully arranging 
the voluminous folds of her bridal dress as she did so, 
and having settled herself to her satisfaction, she began 
leisurely stretching her white gloves. 

Becky took the wreath out of its box, and lifted the 
soft fleecy veil from its bed, and shook its folds out 
slowly and deliberately. She gave a little shiver as 
she did so, which was perceived by Agnes, who was 
furtively watching her in the glass. 

“ It isn’t a shroud, it’s a wedding veil, Becky,” she 
called out, recklessly. 

“ Oh, Agnes, for mercy’s sakel” And Becky shivered 
again in earnest. Then she came behind her sister’s 
chair and laid her hand caressingly upon the haughty 
head. Agnes neither acknowledged nor resented the 
sisterly act, but sat as motionless as a statue. 

Then Becky spoke out. Her voice trembled a little 
when she first began, but grew stronger and firmer as 
her feelings got the better of her timidity, until it filled 
the little room with solemn, earnest eloquence : 

“Agnes dear,” she said, “I’ve been watching you 
closely ever since you engaged yourself to Mr. Barrow, 
and I know that you do not love him. A woman does 
not grow light-hearted and gay when a storm suddenly 
arises to prevent her lover from coming to her, if she 
is his lover as well. A woman does not treat flowery 
offerings from the hand of him she really loves as you 
treat poor Mi*. Barrow’s beautiful bouquets. A woman 
does not refuse to grant one token of affection, or even 
interest, before marriage, on the prudish score of im- 
propriety, when she really cares for a man, nor does 
she sit and look at her engagement ring, and shiver as 
it gleams cold and bright in the moonlight, and turn 
the glittering stone into the palm of her hand, as I’ve 
seen you do, Aggie. You don’t love him, Agnes, and 
you are marrying him for his money. It will bring 


ACTUALLY MARRIED. 


53 


you harm, my sister, and not good. I know you well 
enough to feel sure that you will not be a wise wife 
and try to soften down all the little angularities that 
will be sure to make themselves felt in your married 
life. It is not too late, Aggie, — send for him as soon 
as he gets here, and tell him you do not love him and 
will not do him the cruel injustice of marrying him for 
his gold. We are poor, Aggie, I know, very, very 
poor, — but you are young and so beautiful, why can 
you not wait a little while ? I’ll pinch and save in 
every imaginable way, Aggie ; and let you go travel- 
ing until you see somebody you do love and can marry, 
if you will only promise not to bring this great unhap- 
piness upon us all, and upon that poor young man. 
Oh, Aggie, you’re going to make him such a bad wife I 
I know you are. And your home will be so wretched. 
All your money will only serve to gild its wretchedness. 
Let me go to him, sister dear, if you don’t like to tell 
him all this. I’ll tell it to him honestly, but kindly, 
and after the first smart is over, he will thank you for 
your honesty, and will respect you all the more. Say 
* yes,’ Aggie, won’t you, dear ? Say it before it is too 
late.” 

She paused for her sister’s answer. 

Miss Snowe had been all this time deliberately fast- 
ening the button in her right-hand glove. She looked 
calmly up into Becky’s excited face as she replied, 
coldly, “My dear sister, I have no intention whatever 
of making a sentimental simpleton of myself at the 
eleventh hour, so you will oblige me by adjusting my 
veil and wreath. Don’t do it, though, if you have any 
religious scruples about adorning me for this unright- 
eous marriage. I’ll send for Jule if you have: I don’t 
think she is afflicted with scruples of any description 
whatever.” 

Becky seized the veil without another word, and ar- 
ranged it in graceful folds around the queenly form. 
Then she placed the wreath upon the braids of glossy 
brown hair, but, as she did so, a large pellucid tear 


54 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


dropped from her downcast eyes right into the heart 
of a bridal rose, and ‘glistened there, a last silent pro- 
test against this unholy compact. Then she kissed 
her sister in silence and left the room, promising to 
return when the bridegroom should have arrived. 

Left to herself, Agnes Snowe rose slowly from her 
chair, and, with hands clasped before her, began pacing 
restlessly to and fro the whole length of the apartment. 
She looked more like a tragedy queen, so stately and 
stern and cold, than a young girl awaiting the coming 
of her bridegroom. 

At last her troubled thoughts found utterance in 
audible murmurs. 

“Oh, Pauli Paul! my love, my heart’s idol, will 
you despise me utterly ? Will you go your way through 
life believing me entirely soulless, utterly incapable of 
' loving anything, when at this moment my wretched 
heart is so full of burning, passionate love for you that 
I am almost strong enough to give up my promised 
grandeur and go with you to share your poverty for 
the sake of your blessed love ? Oh, my love, my love ! 
come to me ; one word of encouragement from you 
and I will fly from this union, yea, even if it should 
break his heart.” 

She paused in front of a window that commanded 
the boat landing. The moon was shining in a cloud- 
less sky, rendering everything out-of-doors as bright 
as day. As she pressed her face against the cold 
glass, she saw the two young men coming up the little 
path to the house, — her husband that was to be, and 
by his side the tall, graceful figure of Paul Winchester. 

An audible moan trembled over the white lips of the 
unhappy girl. As she shrunk from the window she 
confronted Becky, who had entered noiselessly to an- 
nounce that they were coming. 

“ Becky,” said Agnes, hurriedly, “ I want to speak 
with Mr. Winchester. I must speak with him,” she 
added, vehemently ; “ go and fix it somehow, so that I 
can see him alone for five minutes.” 


ACTUALLY MARRIED. 


55 


Becky, who had hoped against^hope that something 
might yet occur to stop the marriage, flew to arrange 
the interview between Mr. Winchester and her sister, 
fondly believing that Agnes was going to request that 
gentleman to inform his cousin for her of her suddenly- 
conceived resolution not to marry him. 

Before Mr. Barrow well knew where he was, he found 
himself shut up like a Jack-in-a-box by the energetic 
Miss Rebecca, who mumbled a few incoherent words 
of pretended explanation, as she closed the door upon 
him, and bustled away to parts unknown. 

Mr. Winchester found himself invited in the same 
incoherent fashion into a little room called by courtesy 
Major Snowe’s study. Hardly had the door closed 
upon Becky ^s retreating form before it opened again to 
give admittance to Miss Snowe, who sailed up to him 
in her floating white draperies, a vision of perfect 
queenly beauty. 

He advanced to meet her with the easy cordiality of 
an old friend. His greeting was frank and pleasant, 
and free from^the slightest tinge of embarrassment. 
Not so the lady, who seemed sufeing under the most 
violent agitation. She bowed silently in answer to his 
congratulations ; then raising her eyes and gazing 
steadily at him, she went right to the point. 

‘‘Mr. Winchester, I am going to do a strange thing 
for me. I am going to act honestly. You told me 
once that you loved me. You asked me to be your 
wife. I was afraid of poverty, and I told you no. I 
told you that I had nothing but friendship to offer you. 
I lied. I love you with a love so true, so deep, so in- 
tense that it astonishes even myself. I have come to 
you, even now, while my bridegroom is awaiting me in 
the next room, to give myself to you. I will try to 
endure poverty for your sake, and in promising that I 
give the greatest proof of love that Agnes Snowe can 
possibly give to any human being. Paul, Paul, my 
love I are you still mine ? Ho you still love me V' And 
she held out her hands with a gesture almost pleading 


56 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


while there came into her fine eyes more of the woman 
than was ever seen by mortal man before that night, 
or ever after. 

For a moment Mr. Winchester stood paralyzed by 
contending emotions. Then the loyal love he had 
borne his cousin from childhood up to the present hour 
asserted its supremacy. 

He came up to the trembling girl, and, taking both 
her hands in his, he looked down into her agitated face 
very kindly but very gravely, as he replied, — 

Miss Snowe, when I made you an olfer of my hand 
and name, it was with the full consciousness that my 
cousin loved you as dearly as I. Otis and I have grown 
up together, and have no secrets from each other. He 
generously stood aside, a few months ago, and bade 
me God speed when I went to sue for your hand. He 
loves you very dearly, and is worthy of something 
better than the cold respect you seem to consider ample 
reward for his generous devotion. He is supremely 
happy in the prospect of his marriage with you, and I 
think your heart would smite you if you could have 
heard as I have been hearing for the past few days the 
poor fellow’s plans for your happiness ; his queen, his 
empress, he calls you. I know Otis Barrow. I know 
all his virtues and his faults. I know him and I love 
him. He loves me and he trusts me, and I would be 
ten times a villain, deserving the contempt of all good 
men and women, if I could rob him of his bride in this 
the hour of his expected happiness.” 

AVhen he had first commenced speaking, a blush of 
crimson shame had mantled the bride’s pallid cheek, 
that had died away long since and left her looking as 
cold and still as a marble statue. 

Presently she managed to disengage her hands from 
his clasp, and in a voice as if nothing but the most or- 
dinary conversation had been engaging their attention, 
she remarked, pointing to the cloek, — 

“See, it is ten minutes past eight I will you call my 
father? Mr. Barrow will begin to wonder.” 


ACTUALLY MARRIED. 5Y 

“ Agnes,’' began Mr. Winchester, “ do not consum- 
mate this thing without pausing to ” 

“ Mr. Winchester,” said Miss Snowe, with a frigid 
look from her cold gray eyes, “ I believe you are a gen- 
tleman ?” 

This was said interrogatively. 

“ I hope so. Miss Snowe.” 

“ Then you have forgotten, by this time, all that has 
passed between us this evening, and will oblige me by 
escorting your cousin to this room.” 

Mr. Winchester left the room to release the impris- 
oned and impatient bridegroom. Within the space of 
the next quarter of an hour the deed was done. Agnes 
Snowe promising, in a clear, audible voice, “ to have 
and to hold from that day forward, for better, for worse, 
for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, 
cherish, and to obey, till death them did part,” a man 
for whom she did not entertain one iota of even kindly 
feeling. 

It was a dismal sort of a wedding, try as everybody 
might to make believe it wasn’t. The minister was a 
dismal sort of a dignitary, who shuflBied over the beauti- 
ful service of the church in a dreary we ’re-all-poor- 
miserable-sinners sort of a way, and pronounced a 
benediction which sounded most uncommonly like a 
funeral sermon. 

Becky was dismal because she saw farther into the 
future than some of those present, and saw visions 
there that did not tend to make her heart light or her 
manners gay. 

Julia was dismal because all her loveliness as brides- 
maid was thrown away on the most unappreciative of 
spectators. 

The bride was dismal because, notwithstanding the 
brave front she carried, she was almost frightened at 
that night’s work. 

Mr. Winchester was dismal because he could see but 
little chance for domestic happiness for his cousin in 
this marriage, and he kneV Otis well enough to feel 
6 


68 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


assured that he would not take the disappointment, 
which was inevitably in store for him, kindly. 

Major Snowe looked dismal because he had a vague 
sort of a notion that he ought to feel sorry at losing his 
handsome daughter, though, if he had been put upon 
oath, he could not have sworn that he was. 

The bridegroom alone looked supremely, intensely, 
redly happy. But even he gave a little nervous start, 
as a most lugubrious, mournful, despairing howl smote 
upon the night air, in close proximity to the parlor 
windows. 

It was a wail mournful enough and unearthly 
enough to have been uttered by a lost spirit, but which, 
in reality, emanated from the throat of a superannuated 
hound belonging to Major Snowe, who was in the 
habit of spending his winter evenings on the rug, in 
front of the fire, and not being able to understand the 
cause for his exclusion therefrom on this particular 
evening, he entered his protest -against the general 
heartlessness prevailing by giving utterance to that 
long-drawn wail, which put to flight the last remnant 
of gayety in the bridal-party within. 

Altogether, I think J ulia’s comparison about grave- 
yards and tombstones, and wet blankets, was a tolera- 
bly correct one. 


IS DR. LOMBARD'S. 


69 


CHAPTER IX. 

IS DR. lombard’s. 

Dr. Lombard has been promised a chapter all to 
himself. A very indiscreet promise I consider it upon 
reflection, and a very inconvenient one to fulfill, for 
after all is told about him that needs to be told by way 
of introduction, it will hardly make two good-sized 
paragraphs. 

The doctor was one of those men who get the epi- 
thet “ old ” tacked on to them long before they are 
chronologically entitled to it. He was but slightly 
past forty at the time of Agnes Snowe’s marriage, and 
yet he had been “ Old Dr. Lombard” for ever so long. 
His personal appearance, I suppose, was responsi- 
ble for this. He was quite tall, but slender to the 
verge of meagerness ; besides, he stooped badly, from 
habit rather than want of strength. Then, again, his 
hair, which was quite thin on top, was thickly flecked 
with white. He had a pair of big, brown, thoughtful 
eyes, that rather looked through you than at you. His 
general cast of countenance was grave, almost to 
solemnity ; but if a bon-mot was gotten off in his pres- 
ence, or some praiseworthy deed told of, his large, 
firm mouth would broaden into an appreciative smile, 
or his fine eyes light up with feeling, until you were 
surprised into the conviction that Dr. Lombard had a 
decidedly handsome face. 

He was scrupulously neat in his person. Always 
wore the most faultless linen, the most highly-polished 
boots, and the most unexceptionable gloves and hats. 
He was as dainty as a woman about his long acorn- 
shaped finger-nails, and was accused by malicious 
folks of being the least bit in the world proud of them 


60 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


and of a magnificent set of dazzling teeth. Who 
knows ? the greatest of men are sometimes afflicted 
with the smallest of foibles, — par exemple, Murat and 
his white plume. 

To strangers he was stiffly courteous, to friends 
frank and easy, not to say jocular, but to those for 
whom he had conceived a dislike he was brusque even 
to rudeness. Notwithstanding which, at heart, there 
never was a more tender, gentle, sympathetic mortal 
than this same “ old Dr. Lombard.” 

He had been practicing in the neighborhood of Sil- 
ver Lake for years, and why he had not grown to 
be a rich man in that time was a mystery to all his 
friends. He had a monopoly of the practice. There 
were no objects of charity in the neighborhood, nor 
was he addicted to any of the small vices (?) by which 
gentlemen contrive to lighten their purses. So where 
did his money go to ? 

Mrs. Grundy wearied h«rself unsuccessfully in try- 
ing to find out, gave the task up as hopeless, and 
turned her attention to somebody else’s private affairs, 
and Dr. Lombard went on his way utterly unconscious 
of the curiosity he had unwittingly aroused. 

Tanglewood was the one place where he was ever 
known to visit sociably. Some said he was in love 
with Miss Snowe, others declared that they had heard 
him give Miss Julia’s beauty precedence, and still 
others declared that it was admiration for Miss Becky’s 
more sterling charms that drew him there. Be that 
as it may, certain it is that up to the moment of 
Agnes’s wedding he had never given either of the 
three young ladies of Tanglewood the slightest reason 
for thinking that he came there for any other object 
than to talk politics with their father or engage in a 
game of chess with the old gentleman, for which good- 
natured act he was always silently blessed by the 
three Misses Snowe. He never waited for an invita- 
tion to Tanglewood, but would ride up to the rack, 
hitch his horse, dismount, and, throwing his saddle- 


FICTITIOUS HAPPINESS. 


61 


bags over his arm, would enter the house with the air 
of a man pretty sure of his welcome, which, indeed, 
he was. 

Then Becky would have the spare bedroom fixed 
for his reception, and would order muffins for tea ; for 
the doctor must always have his favorite dishes, and 
his habits and tastes were as well known to the Tan- 
glewood people as to himself. ’ 

From all of which you will have drawn the correct 
conclusion that Dr. Lombard was not only the medical 
adviser of the Snowe family, but also I’ami du maison, 
as is every country doctor who is worth a rush. 

1^0 w, then, doctor, you have had your chapter. 


CHAPTER X. 

FICTITIOUS HAPPINESS. 

Mr. Barrow had taken his beautiful bride to Aland 
and installed her as mistress thereof with joy and pride 
unspeakable. He was feverishly anxious that every- 
thing there should meet with her royal approval. He 
gloried in the possession of the wealth that was to 
enable him to gratify every desire of his sultana’s 
heart. Altogether, he was in that state of beatific hap- 
piness and uxorious devotion which can be most felici- 
tously expressed by the one word “spooney.” 

Now, if I did not have such illustrious precedents 
as Dickens, Thackeray, and Kingsley to support me in 
the use of that doubtful word “ spooney,” I might feel 
called upon to insert an apologetic paragraph in- its 
defense, for, indeed, it is just the word I wanted, and 
I know of no combination of monosyllables, dissylla- 
bles, or polysyllables that would convey half so readily 
an idea of Mr. Otis Barrow’s condition. 

6 * 


62 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


As for Mrs. Barrow, she showed herself fully equal 
to the occasion. When old Dora delivered up the keys, 
with a little hard-studied speech, remarkable, princi- 
pally, for its dignity and bad grammar, Agnes re- 
ceived them with graceful suavity, and assured the 
retiring dignitary that she expected she would have to 
appeal to her very often for advice and instruction, as 
she was shamefully ignorant of all housekeeping de- 
tails. A speech which Aunt Dora acknowledged with 
a curtsy and a grunt — the curtsy signifying acquies- 
cence in the new order of things; the grunt implying 
that she was fully aware of Mrs. Barrow’s ineligibility 
to office. 

Agnes treated her husband with an off-hand sort of 
kindness, for which she gave herself great credit. In 
fact, she believed she really felt kindly toward him. 
He was so good to her, and seemed so anxious to 
gratify her every expressed desire, and to anticipate 
her unexpressed ones, that the cold, dull pulses of her 
selfish heart were actually quickened into something 
like gratitude. Moreover, now that he was in his own 
home, where he was master and where a hundred ob- 
sequious slaves were forever testifying to that fact, her 
respect for him increased amazingly. She discovered 
a certain dignity about him that had been totally lack- 
ing in the blushing, bungling, awkward young man 
who had sued so humbly for her hand. 

He was in his own house now and at his ease with 
her as his wife, which he never had been with Miss 
Snowe, his cold, capricious, repellant lady-love. Hence 
Mrs. Barrow found herself treating her husband with 
a species of dignified politeness, which she declared to 
herself was the perfection of conjugal etiquette, and far 
preferable to those inane protestations and sickening 
endearments which render the honey-moon so trying 
a period to all sensible people. Besides, Otis was 
quite affectionate enough for two, and she accepted 
his rather oppressive demonstrations with a placid 
grace that should have proved entirely satisfactory to 


FICTITIOUS HAPPINESS. 


63 


the most ardent of newly-made spouses. It was rather 
pleasant than otherwise to have the dull monotony of 
life in a stupid country house broken up by the active 
adulation of her husband, and things at Aland were 
gliding along in so satisfactory a style that Agnes 
mentally pronounced Becky a false prophetess and a 
silly croaker, and herself a model wife. 

In his gratitude to Miss Snowe for having con- 
descended to accept his large fortune with the modest 
encumbrance of his own devoted self, Mr. Barrow’s 
heart melted toward every one of the name of Snowe. 
He insisted upon Julia’s being brought to Aland, and 
encouraged his wife in making her sister’s heart glad 
with frequent and costly gifts with which to beautify 
her dainty self. 

Agnes proved amiably acquiescent to all such sug- 
gestions. It was even arranged that Julia was to go 
traveling with them that summer, but before their 
flitting they were to give a house-warming, which they 
did give early in the spring after their marriage, to 
which all the neighboring gentry were bidden, and 
came and went away pronouncing Mrs. Barrow and 
her diamonds and her supper and her servants “ per- 
fect.” 

Mr. Barrow experienced a slight shade of disap- 
pointment at his young wife’s eagerness to leave so 
soon the home he had taken so much pride and pleasure 
in fitting up for her. He would infinitely have pre- 
ferred spending that whole summer on the plantation, 
but Agnes panted to go out into the world, now that 
she could make an appearance in it befitting her regal 
beauty, and she possessed neither the desire nor in- 
tention of being immured at Aland and wasting her 
charms upon her husband only, let him be never so 
devoted a spouse. 

With the instinctive perception of all cold, selfish 
natures, who have no feelings of their own to interfere 
with their analytical observations of others, Agnes 
Barrow had discovered the fact that with all her hus- 


64 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


band’s apparent good humor and readiness to yield, 
there was an under-current of stubbornness in his dis- 
position which it would be just as well not to provoke 
into activity by any premature display of determina- 
tion on her own part ; so when she saw that in reality 
he cordially disliked the idea of leaving his home so 
soon after having returned to it, with the full intention 
of staying there, instead of acting as she would really 
have liked to do, — i.e. informed him, imperiously, that 
if he had only married her to immure her at Aland, 
she really could not see what she had made by the 
exchange, — she pursued the far wiser course of making 
it impossible for him to refuse her by converting her- 
self temporarily into the kind of woman she knew his 
wife ought to have been. She forced herself to visit 
the dairies, where she would stand in the doorway, 
holding her spotless skirts up daintily, to prevent their 
coming in contact with the equally spotless floors, and 
after addressing some half-dozen deplorably ignorant 
questions to the dairy-maid, she would pass judgment 
on the appearance of everything in a ridiculously crude 
manner that would provoke a furtive smile on the old 
milk-woman’s wrinkled face ; then she would pass on 
to the poultry-yards, where, peeping through the fence, 
she would distinguish herself by a second display of 
profound ignorance. Then she would go back to the 
house, priding herself on the fact that when Otis came 
in from the field she would have quite a stock of 
domestic lore to entertain him with. Then she would 
dutifully examine her husband’s wardrobe, and experi- 
ence something almost like regret that Mr. Barrow had 
considered it necessary to get everything new, and in 
such tremendous quantities, that it would be utterly 
impossible for her to have any mending to do for the 
next six months. There were no less than three dozen 
brand-new pairs of socks in his bureau, and unless she 
punched holes in them on purpose, how could she find 
any darning to do ? Then he wore studs and sleeve- 
buttons, so where were any buttons to sew on ? Yery 


FICTITIOUS HAPPINESS. 


65 


vexatious truly, for until a man sees his wife sewing 
on buttons and darning socks, he does not realize that 
he has one. 

Malgre the buttons and the socks, Mrs. Barrow car- 
ried the day. In fact, there had been no expressed 
opposition on the part of her husband, but she per- 
ceived the disinclination on his part to leaving, and 
had rather feared he might ask her if she wouldn’t stay 
at home, which she didn’t want him to ask her. So 
she behaved so sweetly and talked so adroitly about 
her anxiety to see something of the world, that before 
the time for their departure had arrived, Mr. Barrow 
had relinquished any hope he might secretly have en- 
tertained of spending a quiet summer at home, and 
had, in fact, told himself that it was a great piece of 
selfishness on his part not to desire this move more 
cordially than he did. 

After she has seen a little of the world, she won’t 
have such a hankering after it, he soliloquized ; and 
she will come back and settle down with a better will 
to the earnest duties that will devolve on her as a 
planter’s wife. So I will gratify her to the top of her 
bent for this whole year. She’s young and pretty, and 
it’s natural she should want a little change after her 
humdrum life at Tanglewood. I won’t cross you in a 
solitary wish, my beautiful Aggie ; and then I hope, 
when you see how anxious I am for your happiness, 
you will be willing to turn in and help me along in 
the world as every true-hearted wife must help her 
husband. 

In the utterance of that hope, Mr. Barrow had un- 
consciously admitted the presence of a doubt. 

So, early in the month of June, just a little over a 
year from the day when old Dora had thrown open the 
doors of Aland, so joyously, to welcome its master 
home, its doors were closed again, and that master, 
accompanied by his beautiful wife and her hardly less 
beautiful sister, had turned his back on the old planta- 
tion “to go and see the world.” 


66 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


The world, as spoken of by such women as Mrs. 
Barrow and her sister, means fashionable watering- 
places, crowded with soulless and brainless human 
butterflies. But among all the said butterflies that 
flitted from spot to spot during the summer in question, 
there were none of brighter hues or lighter wing than 
the chrysalides that Mr. Barrow had imported into the 
fluttering throng. 

“ They were gorgeous ! they were glorious I they 
were dazzling I” And from post to post, from triumph 
to triumph, they passed, followed submissively by Mr. 
Barrow, who by the time they reached Saratoga had 
given his last dying flicker of independence, and sub- 
sided into a position compounded of purse-bearer, 
adoring husband, and amateur showman. 

So suddenly and completely had he been swept into 
the position of “ Timothy Pettigrew’s wife’s husband” 
by his wife’s triumphant entree into the beau-monde, 
that when she informed him, after a week’s stay at 
Saratoga, that “it would not be the thing” to go home 
without having taken a bridal trip to Europe, he sat 
down uncomplainingly and wrote letters to his mana- 
gers, informing them of his intention to visit Europe, 
and Agnes and Julia wrote letters home to Tanglewood 
to the same effect, — letters very full of egotistic vanity, 
and very empty of any affection or interest in their 
old father and lonely sister. 

To explain Mr. Barrow’s ready acquiescence I must 
tell you that he did not yield because he could not op- 
pose. But since he had brought his beautiful wife out 
into the world, and had seen her beauty tenfold en- 
hanced by elegant and tasty dressing, and had seen her, 
in the fullness of her triumphant joy, growing gayer 
and brighter than he had ever seen her as Agnes 
Snowe, and when, in gratitude to the man who was 
the instrument of all this intoxicating happiness, she 
had grown almost affectionate to her husband, his in- 
fatuation had increased in proportion to her increased 
charms, so that no wonder she found it easy work to 
coax him across the ocean. 


FICTITIOUS HAPPINESS. 


6t 

So across it they went, and whirled from point to 
point, after the fashion of American travelers, until 
they whirled into the champagne district of France, 
and there, in the town of Rheims, where Mr. Barrow 
stopped to select a wine merchant, Miss Julia Snowe 
met her fate, in the person of an elegant-looking, vi- 
vacious little wine prince, one of the aristocracy of the 
place, who fell madly in love with la belle Americaine, 
convinced her brother-in-law of his eligibility on the 
score of family and personal character, satisfied the 
young lady that he was wealthy enough to gratify her 
every wish, let it be never so extravagant, and was 
rewarded with the promise of her hand. He pleaded 
for an early marriage. Mr. Barrow opposed it. It 
was but right that he should accompany the young 
lady home and receive her father’s sanction. 

Here Miss Snowe interfered, and took the matter 
into her own hands. To Agnes she said, privately, 
“I have no notion of letting Monsieur Yerzenay ac- 
company me home to that stuffy old house of ours 
since I’ve seen the splendid chateau in which his 
mother lives, nor do I care about being put to the blush 
by poor, old, obsolete Becky since I have come to 
know that exquisite Adele Yerzenay. Father won’t 
shed a tear if he never sees me again ; so if you and 
Mr. Barrow will stop here in Bheims for about a month, 
I will tell Lucien to-morrow that I will marry him at 
the end of that time.” 

As Mrs. Barrow was as entirely free from any senti- 
mental notions on the subject of filial duty as was her 
sister, she did not raise one objection to the plan. 
Finding himself sadly in the minority, Mr. Barrow 
had to yield, which he did tolerably gracefully, only 
uttering one faint protest against the apparent heart- 
lessness of the proceeding. So the next day Monsieur 
Lucien Yerzenay’s heart was made glad by being told 
that he should carry la belle Americaine home to the 
old chateau as his bride if he would wait patiently 
for one little month. 


68 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


At the end of that time of probation Julia Snowe 
became Madame Yerzenay, and removed to the cha- 
teau which had so delighted her eyes, where she was 
received with an affectionate cordiality and charming 
grace by the two lovely relatives of her husband, his 
mother and sister, who were completely captivated by 
the beauty and apparent guilelessness of this young 
American girl, which would hardly have been accorded 
her if they had been aware of her heartlessness in ig- 
noring her father and sister in her eagerness to secure 
a wealthy parti. So, for awhile, we lose sight of 
Madame Lucien Yerzenay, nee Julia Snowe. 

The wheel of fortune had been gilded so gorgeously 
by fate, and had taken to revolving with such dazzling 
rapidity, and in its revolutions had brought golden 
prizes to the two Miss Snowes in so wonderfully unex- 
pected a fashion, that it was almost impossible for 
them to realize that it was the same wheel against 
whose sluggish revolutions they used to utter such 
vain and bitter repinings in the shabby little house 
nestling amid the trees on the quiet, peaceful banks of 
Silver Lake. 

As nature had not burdened these two dames with 
more than a minimum of heart, it was with the great- 
est facility that they effloresced into women of fashion 
of the very first water. Mrs. Barrow queened it d la 
Juno, Madame Lucien Yerzenay rippled, and sparkled, 
and effervesced like the bubbles of her husband’s cham- 
pagne. 

Let us hope that her husband’s happiness prove not 
as evanescent as those same bubbles. 


OBSOLETE BECKY: 


69 


CHAPTER XL 
“obsolete becky.^^ 

When Julia’s letter, announcing her approaching 
marriage, in curt, flippant sentences, reached Tangle- 
wood, it created a commotion that would have been 
pronounced “ highly absurd” by the soulless writer 
thereof, if she had been cognizant of it. 

Becky had been more than a sister to Julia. She 
had been sister, mother, playmate, all in one ; and to 
have her step entirely out of her old life into the new, 
without expressing one regret, or even considering it 
worth while to come home to be married, struck our 
true-hearted Becky as heartless and cruel in the ex- 
treme. The letter containing the announcement had 
been addressed to Major Snowe. He had read it twice 
over before handing it to Becky for perusal. Then he 
passed it across the table, with this comment : 

“ My other butterfly has flown. My girl, I wonder 
how long it will be before you tire of the old man and 
the old house, and take French leave of them, too ?” 

Wonderingly, Becky reached out her hand for the 
letter. She, too, read, it twice over in silence ; then 
she laid her head down on the teatray before her, and 
burst into a flood of tears. Julia’s exceeding heart- 
lessness had wounded her sorely, and she cried as if 
her poor, honest heart would break. 

Major Snowe pushed his chair back from the table 
with an impatient grunt, and, walking into his study, 
planted himself in his great leather arm-chair, where 
he sat smoking pipe after pipe, only taking his meer- 
schaum out of his mouth long enough to submit to be 
hugged and caressed by Becky, who, coming in about 


DEAD 3IEN’S SHOES. 


to 

an hour after breakfast, had walked straight up to the 
lonely old man and put her arms around his neck and 
answered the question he had asked her when he 
handed her Julia’s letter, by a fervent, — 

“ Never, father, — never I” 

Then Becky went out into the kitchen and told old 
Patience that Julia, her youngest nursling, her pet, 
was not coming back to them any more. That she 
had married a rich Frenchman away over in his own 
country, and had gone suddenly and completely out 
of their sphere. 

As old Patience was rapidly falling into her dotage, 
and was actively awake to but two interests in life, — 
her weekly supply of tobacco and her winter’s comple- 
ment of red flannel, — she received this news with a 
stoical indifference that rather disgusted poor Becky, 
whose active sorrow craved active sympathy. She did 
not wish to speak to her father much on the subject, 
for, although he had not uttered one reproach against 
the offender, Becky knew he felt her unfilial conduct 
deeply, for he persisted in being left to himself all that 
day. He smoked furiously and incessantly, and he 
forgot to call for his game of chess. That last de- 
parture from his daily routine was proof conclusive of 
great internal commotion. 

So, driven within herself for sympathy, Becky re- 
turned to the house and mounted the stairs leading to 
the little bedroom that had once belonged to “the girls.” 
She smiled sadly and a little bitterly as she stood 
within the cramped little apartment. “It would look 
very poor and mean to them now, I guess, they’ve 
gotten used to so much elegance,” she soliloquized, as 
she went about dismantling the room ; for they would 
never come back to sleep in the little slim-posted bed- 
stead, nor would the poor little oval looking-glass ever 
again reflect their beautiful, cold faces. So Becky 
went about folding up bedclothes, taking down, cur- 
tains, dismantling the toilet-table, emptying the water 
from the now useless ewer on the washstand, feeling 


OBSOLETE BECKY: ' 


n 


all the time as if somebody had died and the funeral 
was just over. 

She folded away all the wearing apparel her sisters 
had left behind them into one large trunk. There was 
the little linen collar with the tiny breastpin stu.ck in 
it, just as careless Julia had thrown them into her top 
drawer on the morning of her departure. “ Madame 
Verzenay would laugh at this poor little pin,^’ thought 
Becky as she laid it with the other things, “but Jule 
thought it once a very pretty birthday present.” She 
pulled open a bureau drawer that used to belong to 
Agnes. There was nothing in it but a little scrap of a 
note, signed “ P. Winchester,” written from Aland, 
during his visit there, and simply containing the re- 
grets of the two young gentlemen at hearing of Miss 
Snowe’s indisposition, hoped, etc. The other contents 
of the drawer were some half-dozen dead flowers — 
single blossoms — that he had offered at various times. 
She had treasured these poor little tokens ; but where 
was any sign of the mammoth bouquets that poor 
Otis used to bring so often ? There was none there, — 
the flowers had found no more place in the drawer than 
had their donor in his wife’s heart. 

Becky sighed as she picked up these little straws of 
confirmation, and then she said to herself, with a little 
burst of indignation, that Agnes ought to be ashamed 
of herself not to have destroyed these things ; then she 
declared she would do it herself ; then she looked once 
more at the poor, faded, harmless tokens of a love that 
was as dead as their own withered selves, and laying 
them gently back, she turned the key in the drawer, 
and left them there to moulder. They are not mine, 
reasoned Becky ; and if, when she comes back to Aland, 
she should take a fancy to come over after them, she 
would think I had been prying into her secrets. 

After Becky had made her sister’s room look as much 
as possible like an apartment that a corpse had just 
been carried out of, and had succeeded in working her- 
self up into feeling as if one just had, she came out of 


12 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


it, locked the door, put the key on a high nail in the 
hall, and ran quickly down-stairs, feeling more nervous 
and foolish than it often came to the sensible Rebecca 
to feel. 

Julia and Agnes had gone out of her ken and her 
life without one regret ; so, now that she had put out of 
sight everything that could possibly remind her of 
them, she would try and not think of them any more. 
She would live for her father. He and she would live 
entirely for each other, and not spend another regret on 
these two bad, cold, cruel girls ; which stoical resolve 
she carried into immediate execution by sitting down 
on the hard little sofa in the parlor and giving herself 
up to another big cry. 

She was still crying and sobbing, and vowing she 
wouldn’t shed another tear, and then shedding them in 
a perfect shower by way of sealing her vow, when the 
parlor door was softly optned, and, jumping up from 
her recumbent position on the sofa, she faced round 
upon Dr. Lombard. Now, if Becky had been a vain 
woman, she would have been conscious of nothing but 
her frizzly head, her red eyes, and her swollen nose ; 
but she was not vain, and she was only conscious that 
there stood good, kind Dr. Lombard, with a look of 
half-puzzled sympathy in his great brown eyes. 

The puzzled look meant what on earth can have come 
over the sensible, cheery Miss Rebecca, to have re- 
duced her to a state of such uncontrollable agitation ? 
The look of sympathy sprang unquestioning from his 
soft heart ; he saw that trouble was there, and his 
gentle, pitying soul was always on the alert to soothe 
the pangs of a fellow-mortal. 

“ Oh, Dr. Lombard ! have you heard ?” cried Becky, 
springing forward to clasp his outstretched hand, and 
looking up into his kind face with brimming eyes. 

“ Heard what ?” asked the physician, leading her at 
the same time back to the sofa, and seating himself 
beside her. 

Then, hurriedly and brokenly, Becky told him all 


OBSOLETE BECKY: 


73 


that was in her wounded heart, and wound up with a 
little plaintive assertion, “And, oh, doctorl theyVe 
left me so lonely.” 

Dr. Lombard’s fine face lighted up with something 
that was not pity, nor was it sympathy. 

He had come to Tanglewood with an object that 
day, said object being to ask Becky to become his wife. 
He had studied up innumerable little speeches on the 
way hither. Laconic, dignified, sensible little speeches, 
worthy of himself, of straightforward Becky, and of 
the momentous occasion, but he had forgotten every 
word of his premeditated speeches at the very moment 
when he laid his hand upon the parlor door-knob, and 
was searching his dazed brains in vain for some appro- 
priate phrase with which to open his suit, when all of 
a sudden she herself helped him out of the muddle by 
telling him, in that little pathetic voice, that her sisters’ 
defection had left her lonely. 

He told her eagerly and earnestly how glad he would 
be to relieve her of that burden of loneliness. How 
sweet it would be to him to enter into a life compan- 
ionship with her, truer, more complete, more satisfying, 
than she ever could have known with her unloving 
sisters. He told her that he had been watching her 
closely, and loving her dearly for a long, long time, 
and now, if she would only consent to become his own 
dear wife, he would have nothing left to wish for. 

Rebecca listened to him at first in unfeigned sur- 
prise. She had never thought of Dr. Lombard in the 
light of a possible lover, and for that very reason, I 
suppose, she had shown herself in her best and truest 
character to him, unconsciously winning his heart 
thereby. But now that she knew that he loved her, 
and had been asked by him plainly to be his wife, did 
she care enough for him to say “ yes” without laying 
herself open to the charge of committing the same 
offense that she censured Agues for so severely ? But, 
then, Mr. Barrow was rich and Dr. Lombard was poor, 
7 * 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 

SO she could not be actuated by mercenary motives. 
But did she love him? Not as folks love in novels,—- 
she knew that. It would not have broken her heart if 
I)r. Lombard had never spoken the words that he had 
just spoken so kindly and earnestly, nor did she sup- 
pose it would break his heart now if she said no in- 
stead of yes. She felt very certain of one thing, — she 
did not care any more for anybody else than she did 
for Dr. Lombard, and as she should never leave the 
old place or her father, it was not likely she ever 
would come across a hero of romance. She knew that 
Dr. Lombard’s visits had always given her sincere 
pleasure. She had never found him tiresome and prosy, 
as Agnes had declared him. And then it was no 
small thing to be loved earnestly and disinterestedly 
by a true-hearted honest man, who was looked up to 
and respected by the whole community. It would not 
be a very brilliant match, but she, plain Becky Snowe, 
neither expected nor desired a brilliant match. She 
honestly believed that this offer of Dr. Lombard’s 
promised her as much happiness as she could ever ex- 
pect, so she thought she would say “ yes.” But, then, 
she had promised her father that very morning that 
she would never, never leave him, and here she was 
almost consenting to do that very thing before night- 
fall. At this new complication, just when she had 
made up her mind that she could say “yes” without 
doing any violence to her own feelings, or any injus- 
tice to his, poor Becky’s eyes brimmed over again, and 
she turned to her suitor a little impatiently, saying, in 
a quick, harsh voice, — 

“ It cannot be. Dr. Lombard. I promised poor 
father only this morning that I would never, never 
leave him, and I will not. Poor old father,” she went 
on, in a voice full of pity, “he may not have contrived 
very well for us, but he did his best, and so far he has 
had very little comfort from his children.” 

“Is that your only objection, Rebecca?” asked the 
doctor, smiling a little anxious smile. 


OBSOLETE BECKY:^ ^5 

“ The only one,’’ she returned, looking him full in 
the face with her bright, honest eyes, 

“ Then you are mine,” he exclaimed, growing happy 
and animated and handsome all in a moment, “fori 
never intended that poor old Major Snowe should be 
left alone, and if he and you will be willing to admit 
my pill-boxes and saddle-bags into the family as well 
as myself, we will all three promise to occupy as little 
room as possible. We can live together either here or 
at my place.” 

“What a silly, not to have thought of that myself!” 

Then Dr. Lombard went off to the study to find 
Major Snowe and to communicate to him his desires 
and plans. 

At last Major Snowe had a son-in-law after his own 
heart. “ Lombard had always struck him as being just 
the kind of man a sensible girl would fall in love with.” 
And he congratulated Becky heartily on the prize she 
had drawn. 

Thus it came about that when Mr, and Mrs. Barrow 
returned to Aland, a little over a year from the time 
they had left it, old Dora communicated to them as the 
most important item in her budget of news, the fact 
that Miss Rebecca and Dr. Lombard had been married 
“jes’ one week.” 

Now, Mrs. Barrow was too thorough a woman of 
ton to make any display of so vulgar an emotion as 
surprise, so she merely looked across the table at her 
husband with a little elevation of her eyebrows and a 
slight French shrug of the shoulders, as she remarked, 
carelessly, “Poor old Becky 1 I suppose she wrote, but 
we missed the letter.” 

“ Gad ! I’m glad to hear it,” exclaimed Mr. Barrow, 
heartily. 

“Pray, why?” asked his wife, coldly. 

“Because Lombard’s a real good fellow, and I’m 
glad to hear that he’s got so good a wife.” 

Mr. Barrow had begun to appreciate the domestic, 
you perceive. 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


t6 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE WORK OP ALIENATION. 

The work of alienation began at Aland almost be- 
fore the honey-moon had expired, and progressed with 
alarming rapidity. 

Mrs. Barrow at home and Mrs. Barrow abroad 
were two sadly dissimilar personages, as Mr. Barrow 
began to realize to his cost. 

They had been married for nearly two years. More 
than a year of that time had the young husband 
yielded up entirely to the desires and caprices of his 
rather exacting bride. He had lavished money upon 
her until her gorgeous and elegant dressing had become 
a matter of public fame. He had acceded to her wishes 
in the matter of traveling until his own soul had fairly 
yearned for the peace and quiet of his country home. 

They had come back to it at last, and Otis thought 
he had fairly earned his reward and was entitled to 
look for a little of that domestic happiness which, 
according to his homely notions, was, after all, the only 
true happiness. 

His spirits rose wonderfully at sight of the old 
house, and as he and Agnes sat over their breakfast a 
few mornings after their return, he rattled away inces- 
santly about his plans, or rather their plans. They 
must do this thing, and they must look into that 
thing, and so on, until his wife looked at his animated 
face in astonishment, and checked the flow of his 
domestic eloquence with a peevish protest : 

“ Why, Mr. Barrow, you’ve talked more in five 
minutes since we got home than in all the time we’ve 
been gone, and all about your stupid cows and pigs 
and horses.” 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 77 

“ I am sorry you find these subjects so very stupid, 
Agnes, as for some time to come you will see and hear 
very little else.” 

“No necessity for reminding me of that, I’m sure. 
I’m hardly likely to forget it, and I expect to die out- 
right before the year is over.” 

Mr. Barrow looked at her gloomily, and pushing his 
chair impatiently back from the table, strode out of the 
room. He found a delegation from the quarters 
waiting for him at the front door. It consisted of 
some seven or eight women, each with a huge steel 
thimble on her finger, and a hank of homespun yarn 
thrown across her arm. The forewoman was armed 
with a pair of formidable shears. 

“ Sacks, master,” was the laconic statement of their 
errand, made by the forewoman after having greeted 
the master with a respectful little curtsy. 

“ Go to your mistress,” said Mr. Barrow, in rather a 
snappish tone ; and, turning off from the group, he passed 
into the library, to await the result of this first hint to 
his wife that she had duties to perform, and that he 
fully expected she should perform them. 

Mrs. Barrow had left the table almost immediately 
after her husband. She had gone back to her own 
room, thrown herself into a rocking-chair, and was 
idly watching her maid, as with deft fingers she was 
folding and laying away the rustling silks and fancy 
laces that filled the huge trunks standing in a row 
against the wall. 

“ When will I wear them again ?” sighed the beau- 
tiful Mrs. Barrow, as she gazed tenderly at the glisten- 
ing robes that had aided her many triumphs in the 
beau-monde. Each rustling robe was associated with 
some glorious victory, or some night of intoxicating 
happiness, and she was going back over it all in 
memory when the room door was darkened by the ap- 
pearance of the delegation, and the lady’s dreaming 
was brought to an end by the repetition of the caba- 
listic words : 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ns 

“ Sacks, mistiss.” 

“Sacks I” repeated Mrs. Barrow, looking at the 
woman in undisguised amazement. 

“ Cotton sacks, mistiss.” 

“Well,” said the lady, impatiently, “what have I 
got to do with your cotton sacks 

“Master sen’ us to you, mistiss,” answered the 
spokeswoman, respectfully. 

“ To do what, I ask you ?” 

“To gin out, mistiss.” 

Mrs. Barrow’s face flushed angrily. If he expected 
her to assist in this plantation work, it was best to let 
him know at once that she proposed doing no such 
thing. 

“ Where is your master ?” 

“In de library, mistiss.” 

Mrs. Barrow swept loftily by the group of gaping 
negroes, and made her way to the library. 

Her husband was sitting there apparently smoking 
his morning cigar in a very amicable frame of mind. 
In reality, steeling himself for the altercation with his 
wife, which he felt to be inevitable. 

“Mr. Barrow,” began his wife, fixing upon him one 
of those icy glances with which the inhabitants of the 
Point were erst so familiar, “ what is it you sent 
those negroes to me for ?” 

“Couldn’t the old fool tell you herself what she 
wanted?” asked Mr. Barrow, taking the cigar from 
between his lips and meeting his wife’s fixed gaze 
with one that betokened equal determination. 

“ She said she wanted the cotton sacks,” replied 
Mrs. Barrow, in a tone that meant that the enormity 
of the request rendered it incredible. 

“Well, then, madam, I suppose sacks are what is ' 
wanted.” 

“Who has been in the habit of attending to this 
branch of your plantation business ?” 

“My housekeeper, madam.” 

“ Then she had better continue to do so.” 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 


^9 


“ Exactly what I thought when I sent them to you.’^ 

“ I expect, sir, to attend rigidly to everything that 
belongs properly to my sphere as housekeeper. This 
does not, and I decline having anything whatever to 
do with it.” 

“Every planter’s wife, Mrs. Barrow, and you as a 
planter’s daughter should be fully aware of the fact, 
has certain duties and responsibilities in connection 
with the quarters that no true-hearted wife cares about 
shirking. In times of sickness, it is mistress not mas- 
ter our poor childlike slaves call for. In the matter of 
giving out their clothing, it is generally conceded that 
the mistress’s judgment is better than the master’s. 
There are numerous other small duties that will de- 
volve upon you as a slaveholder’s wife, which you may 
as well face at once. May I ask who shouldered all 
these responsibilities in your own home, that you are 
so profoundly ignorant of them ?” 

“ Rebecca,” was Mrs. Barrow’s curt rejoinder. 

“ Unfortunately,” continued her husband, “ we have 
no Rebecca here, so you will have to assume these 
degrading duties yourself. At present all that is asked 
of you is to take the key of the long room, opening 
from your laundry, and stand in the door, unless you 
prefer sitting on a bale of Lowell, and see that the 
woman who asked you for the sacks cuts off three yards 
of Lowells for each sack, and cuts out seventy-nine of 
those sacks. This I believe is the key.” And stepping 
toward the mantel-piece, he took from a nail a long 
brass key. 

“ You need not trouble yourself, Mr. Barrow. I have 
no use for that key.” 

“You mean that you refuse to attend to this thing ?” 

“ I mean that I’refuse to have anything whatever to 
do with your plantation affairs now and forever.” 

Otis Barrow was not a ready man, and he was so 
completely taken aback by this display of obstinacy 
and false pride and ingratitude on the part of the 
woman whom he had so recently raised from almost 


80 


DEAD MDN^S shoes. 


abject poverty, that he stood motionless and speechless, 
still holding- the key outstretched in his hand, and won- 
dering what combination of words or course of reason- 
ing could be conjured up to bring his defiant spouse to 
a sense of her duty. 

Mrs. Barrow took his silence as a token of surren- 
der, and swept out of the room, congratulating herself 
on having won the victory so easily. Mistaken 
woman I 

There is a wise old proverb somewhere, which ad- 
vices folks to “ let sleeping dogs lie;” but unfortunately 
there is the smallest number of people in this turbulent 
world who are wise enough to comprehend the great 
need of so doing. 

There are sleeping dogs around every one of us 
that we had best let sleep on, and which we will strive 
in vain to lull to repose again after the fatal awakening. 

There are the dogs of distrust, of suspicion, of jeal- 
ousy, of cruelty, of despair, of hatred, — an ugly pack, 
and one easily aroused. A look, an angry word, an 
unjust aspersion, a false assertion, — any one is all-suffi- 
cient. 

An empty vinegar-cruet roused the sleeping dog at 
Aland I Wives who are prone to forget the castors, 
read and take warning. 

There were premonitory signs of awakening about 
Otis Barrow,^which it would have been well for his 
careless wife if she had taken some note of ; but she 
either did not see them, or else (now that there was 
nothing to be gained by deceit) she scorned to use 
policy. 

Otis had yielded to her in the matter of those odious 
cotton sacks, and as soon as he showed that he was 
sorry for their little conjugal spat, she would make up 
with him. Such was Mrs. Barrow’s mental resolution. 

Mr. Barrow’s mental resolution cannot be summed 
up in so few words. 

When his wife had swept out of the room so tri- 
umphantly, his first impulse was to send an authorita- 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 


81 


tive message to her to come back to him. But he felt 
pretty sure that such a proceeding on his part would 
result in a domestic scene, with a dozen gaping slaves 
for witnesses. He would get rid of them first. 

. He rang the library bell. It was answered promptly 
by his own body-servant. Mr. Barrow handed him 
the key. 

“ Take this to Dora and tell her that Mrs. Barrow is 
too much fatigued after her journey to attend to the 
sacks, so she must give them out herself. Then bring 
round my horse.’’ 

The boy disappeared to do his master’s bidding, and 
in a few minutes reappeared in front of the house with 
Mr. Barrow’s horse. The young man came out imme- 
diately, mounted the animal, and having gained the 
main road, he turned in the direction that led to one of 
his plantations about four miles distant from Aland. 

He would think well before speaking. 

Otis Barrow had one most unfortunate trait of char- 
acter. He was given to brooding. He would brood 
over a wrong done him until it assumed most gigantic 
proportions. There was much that Avas good in his 
disposition, however, and if he had married an amiable, 
sensible domestic Avoman, — in short, if he had married 
Rebecca Snowe, in place* of Agnes Snowe, he would 
have gone through life happily enough, trotting along 
cheerily in the matrimonial harness at an even placid 
jog-trot, contented with his lot, contented with his 
mate, and contented with the world, because he was 
contented with himself. There Avere reserves of coarse- 
ness and hardness in his nature that might never have 
made themselves apparent under the domestic manipu- 
lation of a wiser woman, — sleeping dogs of stubborn- 
ness and harshness that would have slept on forever, 
basking in the sunshine of a happy home. But Agnes 
Barrow was not a wise woman, and her defiant refusal 
to take part or lot in her husband’s domestic affairs 
had aroused all that was bad in the young man’s 
nature into fearful activity. 

8 


82 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Arrived at Beechland, Mr. Barrow held an inter- 
view with his overseer, gave his attention to business 
for an hour or two, then shut himself up in his own 
room, with orders that he was to be disturbed by no 
one. 

If he had been a readier man or a wiser man, he 
could have settled his domestic grievances with so little 
trouble. He would have waited until temper had had 
time to subside on both sides, and he would have gone 
to his wife and told her firmly but gently where he 
thought the fault lay, and he would have endeavored 
to bring her to a sense of her duty as a wife by a few 
calmly-spoken words of good hard common sense. 
Then, if she had still held out in her defiant resolution, 
he would at least have had the satisfaction of knowing 
that he was blameless. 

But unfortunately Otis Barrow was not a strong 
man, nor a wise one. He recognized but one fact and 
one duty. His wife had defied him. He must show 
his wife that he intended to be master. And how to 
impress that needful piece of information upon Mrs. 
Barrow was the mighty difiQculty that set him to 
pacing up and down his bedroom at Beechland, with 
hands clasped behind his back, with moody eyes fixed 
upon the carpet, and great cords standing out on his 
forehead. 

“She must be broken,” resolved the husband. She 
will be hard to break, thought the man who knew her. 

He had loved his wife when he married her. Had 
loved her and wanted to make her happy. He had 
been all that was kind and generous to her. He had 
lavished more money on her in their short married life 
than she had possessed in all her life put together be- 
fore. He had yielded to her in the matter of traveling, 
when both duty and inclination had dictated his return 
home. And now, what return was she making him for 
all this ? She had been peevish and listless from the 
moment she had set foot in her own home and lost 
sight of the gay outside world. She had lain aside all 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 


83 


her pretty airs and sweet smiles with her silks and 
laces, not caring to waste them on no one but her hus- 
band. She was becoming dowdyish in appearance 
and sluggish in action. The breakfast-bell would ring, 
and he would sit over the library-fire full fifteen minutes 
before she would make her appearance in response to 
it. And when she did come, how did she look? List- 
less and moping, she would take her place behind the 
teatray with a yawn, pour out his coffee as if the task 
of lifting the coffeepot was almost too great for her 
feeble arm, and then sit there with hardly a word 
during the whole meal. Curse it, if one of those foreign 
jackanapes with his waxed moustache were sitting 
opposite her, she would find plenty to say I Was this 
married life ? was this the nearest approach to domes- 
tic happiness he was ever to know? Wouldn’t things 
improve if he was to show her right now that he 
would not have any of her fine-lady airs ? Wouldn’t it 
be best to go right back home and lay down the law to 
her, and tell her in plain English that he intended to 
be master ? Yes, he thought it would. Should he do 
it to-day or wait until a fresh provocation should give 
him occasion ? At Beechland he decided in favor of 
to-day. When he got back to Aland and met his 
wife’s icy-cold stare, he decided to wait for fresh pro- 
vocation. 

So things went on for several days, each party 
maintaining a sort of armed neutrality. 

Mrs. Barrow was waiting for some kind of advance 
from her husband. Mr. Barrow was waiting for a fit- 
ting opportunity to assert his mastership over his 
wife. 

The opportunity came, but the advance never did. 
It was about a week after the cotton-sack episode. 
Three gentlemen, neighbors and friends of Mr. Bar- 
row’s, had ridden over to see him, to compare crops 
and discuss some matter of local interest. Mr. Bar- 
row detained them to dinner. Mrs. Barrow was noti- 
fied of the fact. It interested her to the extent of 


84 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


making her have her hair dressed fashionably by her 
dexterous maid, and herself arrayed in a handsome din- 
ner costume, but no further. 

When dinner was announced, Mrs. Barrow made 
her appearance, looking superbly, and she received her 
husband’s guests with such graceful elegance that one 
and all they mentally pronounced Barrow a “lucky 
fellow.” 

The dinner was unexceptionable. The turtle-soup 
was perfect. The fresh fish, just caught in time for 
dinner, was sans reproche. The various courses were 
triumphs of culinary skill, aided by dainty serving. 
The wine that Mr. Barrow pressed so freely upon his 
guests was a glowing advertisement for Monsieur 
Yerzenay. In fact, there was but one thing that was 
not as it should have been. That one thing was the 
vinegar-cruet. The vinegar-cruet instead of being full 
was empty I Mr. Barrow’s right-hand guest put out 
his hand confidently toward the richly-carved silver 
castor, lifted the cut-glass cruet from its socket, saw 
that it was innocent of the desired acid, and replaced 
it furtively and quickly, glancing around to make sure 
that no one had noticed his discomfiture. 

Mr. Barrow caught the action, and glanced savagely 
toward his handsome wife, who was so absorbed in a 
chat about Paris with her right-hand guest that she 
was entirely oblivious of such vulgar things as vine- 
gar-cruets. Presently Mr. Barrow’s left-hand guest 
was seized with an indiscreet desire to vinegar some- 
thing on his plate. Rashly his hand sought the fatal 
castor. Quickly it was withdrawn, and this second 
victim of misplaced confidence bent over his plate, 
looking as confused as if caught in petty larceny. The 
watchful Mr. Barrow had seen this, too. Forbearance 
was no longer a virtue. 

This time he reached forth, and, taking the luckless 
cruet in his hand, he turned to the boy in waiting, and, 
addressing him in a loud, coarse voice, desired him to 
ask Mrs. Barrow if she would please give her house- 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 


85 


keeper orders to fill the castors hereafter previous to 
meals instead of during that period. 

Mrs. Barrow^s fashion chit-chat was brought to a 
sudden stop. Her husband’s voice sounded so unnatm 
rally loud, owing to the combined effect of passion 
and wine, that she was startled. Her first thought 
was: “The brute, to insult me before a whole table- 
full” Her second was: “He don’t sleep this night 
without asking my pardon for it.” Aloud she turned 
to the frightened waiting-boy, and commanded him, 
in a voice of the quietest dignity, to fill the cruet and 
try and be a little more thoughtful next time. 

“ She is a lady,” thought the three guests. “ He is 
an ill-bred savage,” thought the same three knowing 
ones. 

The dinner came to an end, much to the relief of 
the two disappointed applicants for vinegar, who felt 
unconscionably guilty, and were in a frame of mind to 
forswear that appetizing condiment forever. Mrs. 
Barrow remained seated at the head of her table, 
waiting until Mr. Barrow should have conducted his 
guests into the smoking-room. She proposed, as soon 
as they were safely out of hearing, to open her- vials 
of wrath upon the helpless head of Gus, the waiting- 
boy. He had just left the room with a tray full of 
dirty dishes, and she was waiting for his return’ when, 
somewhat to her surprise, the door opened and her 
husband re-entered the room. 

If Mr. Barrow had not been secretly waiting for an 
opportunity to assert his authority over his wife, I 
think the incident of the empty cruet might have been 
passed over with a few cross words for her negligence 
and a sharp reprimand to Gus ; but as he was watching 
his opportunity, this one was just as good as another ; 
besides, he was buoyed up by fictitious courage bor- 
rowed from the wine-bottle. He walked straight up 
to the dinner-table, took the handsome cut-glass cruets 
one by one from their sockets, dashed them one by one 
against the marble mantel-piece ; then, turning round 


86 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


upon the hearth, he planted himself, with his hands 
behind him, and fixed his angry, bloodshot eyes upon 
his wife’s face, 

I think if Agnes had shown one sign of weakness 
at this juncture, had looked frightened or burst into 
tears, her husband would have felt ashamed of him- 
self,— would, in all probability, have gone up to her, 
put his arms around her neek, have called himself a 
brute, and begged her pardon then and there. But 
she was not in the least frightened, and had no notion 
of shedding a solitary tear. Her first words only added 
fuel to the flame. 

. “ Quite a gentlemanly display of strength and 
temper.” And she returned his angry glance with a 
look of such cold and steady defiance that it roused 
her husband to perfect frenzy. 

“ Curse your coolness, madam, do you think I mar- 
ried you for nothing else than the privilege of seeing 
you dress and bedizen yourself for the benefit of other 
men ? Are my wishes and my comfort to be of no 
earthly importance in my own house ? Do you think 
I am going to be such a cursed fool as to let any 
woman living walk over me rough-shod, as you are 
attempting to do ? No, madam, I want you distinctly 
to understand that I am master here, and I expect 
you to recognize that fact as entirely as every one else 
about these premises !” 

He paused and looked at his wife to see what effect 
this manly declaration of independence was producing 
upon her. The charm was certainly not working as 
he had hoped it would. Instead of seeing a penitent, 
cowed woman, ready to beg his pardon for the past 
and promise amendment for the future, there con- 
fronted him a flashing creature, with eyes full of defi- 
ance and lips curling with scorn. 

“Have you done?” she asked, as he paused in his 
philippic. 

“ I am done, madam, if you think you understand 
that from this time I expect my requests to be re- 


THE WORK OF ALIENATION. 8t 

garded as commands, — mj desires to be considered 
your duties.’’ 

“ Your commands, sir, you will make known to 
your slaves, among which I do not number myself. 
Your desires, from this out, will certainly be of much 
less weight with me than formerly. I was fully aware, 
when I married you, that I did not love you to any 
burdensome extent ; but I believed that I was marry- 
ing a gentleman, and hoped to be able to respect him. 
You have proven to me to-day that I was mistaken in 
my belief, and you have rendered it utterly impossible 
for me ever to respect you. As for the cause of this pres- 
ent outburst, I regret that as much as you do, for it re- 
flected discredit upon my housekeeping. You need 
never have feared a recurrence of it ; but I think you 
could have found some more gentlemanly way of ex- 
pressing your displeasure. And now, unless you wish 
our guests to be made aware of the fact that Mr. and 
Mrs. Barrow have taken to downright quarreling, I 
think you had better return to them.” 

So this was the end of his proclamation I He had 
informed his wife loudly and decisively that he was 
her master, and she had informed him, in return, that 
she was sorry to discover that he was no gentleman, 
and had coolly advised him to return to the smoking- 
room. He had expected contrition, tears, and peni- 
tence, in which case he was prepared to become 
instantaneously forgiving and affectionate. He was 
met by sneers, defiance, and advice. 

Who was conquered ? 

She certainly was not. He as certainly was not. 
That piece of advice about his guests was, however, 
worth listening to. He would follow it. One word 
more, though, he would say, — 

“Agnes, are you not sorry ?” 

“ Sorry ?” she looked at him in unfeigned surprise. 
“Yes, I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” she went on, 
“ that this assertion of your marital authority should 
have involved the breakage of my handsome cruets. 


88 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


I hope you will replace them as soon as possible. Gus, 
clear away that broken glass.’^ 

Who was conquered ? 

She certainly was not. Was he ? 

He really did not know himself. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE INFANTRY DEPLOYS UPON THE FIELD. 

Chapter thirteen is dedicated almost exclusively to 
the introduction of a new set of personages, — little 
ladies and gentlemen who are destined to be the real 
heroes and heroines of my story. 

Within a few months after the unhappy altercation 
described in the last chapter, an altercation which had 
only resulted in increased coldness on the wife’s part, 
and increased harshness on the husband’s, Mrs. Bar- 
row gave birth to a son. 

When Dr. Lombard came out of his sister-in-law’s 
room and informed Mr. Barrow that he was the father 
of a fine boy, the young man’s heartbeat fast with love 
and pride, and in his new-found joy he longed to clear 
up matters between his wife and himself. The mother 
of his son was doubly dear. 

“Can I go in, doctor ?” he asked, eagerly. 

“ Yes ; but don’t find too much to say, for Agnes is 
very weak.” 

When Otis stepped within the darkened chamber 
and heard the heavy, labored breathing of his sick 
wife, his naturally kind heart smote him for every harsh 
word he had ever spoken to the woman who lay there 
so white and wan, looking so helpless in her weakness. 
He trod softly, until he stood by her side, then he 
gazed down upon her pale face and closed lids with 


THE INFANTRY DEPLOYS. 


89 


a heart full of the old love. He was seized with a 
yearning desire to take her into his arms and beg 
her to help him make their married life happier in the 
future. 

For their child’s sake, he would beg her to let by- 
gones be by-gones. If she would only try to love him 
a little, they might get along so much better. 

He wondered if she was very ill. To him, the physi- 
cally strong man, whose life-pulses were bounding so 
vigorously, who had never known a day’s sickness, this 
weakness and stillness looked like death. How changed 
she seemed ! Could that be the radiant creature, who, 
not a twelvemonth ago, dazzled with her glorious 
beauty wherever he had taken her ? would she ever 
again look as she had looked then ? Had he been very 
harsh with her ? Shouldn’t he have remembered her 
situation, and not have asked anything of her until this 
crisis had passed ? But he had had so little conception 
of what a trial it was going to be for her, poor thing. 
What did he know, in his man’s ignorance, of the 
grand mystery and mortal agony of woman’s travail ? 
Why had not his wife some time talked to him about 
their common hope and common expectation ? Why 
not have given him the right to cheer and aid her, as 
far as loving sympathy could cheer and aid her in her 
coming peril ? It was all so dark, and still, and death- 
like in the sick-room, nothing breaking the silence but 
the slow, measured breathing of his sick wife, that 
before she awakened he had passed from awe and 
wonderment into remorse and pity, then into love and 
longing. 

He had stood motionless by her bedside fully five 
minutes, when she opened her languid eyes and raised 
them to his face. 

Remember that she knew nothing of what was pass- 
ing and had passed through her husband’s mind, as he 
stood watching her; if she had, her greeting might 
have been a degree less indifferent. 

You here ?” she asked, in a weary voice. “ Have 


90 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


you seen it ? Come on the other side of the bed. What 
do you want to name him 

There was no pride, no joy, in her voice as she spoke 
of “ it.’’ She simply pointed to a bundle of wraps that 
lay upon the bed beside her, and having asked her one 
question, relative to the naming of the child, she closed 
her eyes wearily. 

Without replying to her question, Mr. Barrow 
stooped and pressed a kiss on her pale forehead. 

“ Wife,” he began, speaking in a low and earnest 
voice, “ I want to say a few words to you before you 
go to sleep again. I’ve been standing here looking 
down on your poor, white face till all the man that’s 
in me has raised up to reproach me with every harsh 
word I’ve spoken to you, while you were waiting for 
your trouble to come on you. Women have a deuced 
hard time of it in this world, if men would only try to 
bear it in mind ; and I beg your pardon, Aggie, for 
everything I’ve done to make yours harder. We have 
a child to love and to raise now, wife, and though I’m 
but a coarse fellow at the best, I think, if we both try 
to make things work a little smoother, it will be better 
for you and for me, and for the little man yonder, too. 
It sha’n’t be my fault, Aggie, if we don’t ; for as I 
stand here by you, God knows that there is nothing in 
my heart but regret for the past, love for you and our 
boy in the present, and earnest desire for the happiness 
of our united lives in the future.” 

He paused, waiting for her answer, hoping it would 
be a response. It was short and cold enough when it 
did come. Becky was there. She had come over to 
stand by her sister in the hour of her trial. She was 
sitting at the opposite side of the room, sewing on 
some mysterious garment that the young heir of Aland 
was in immediate need of. She had heard every word 
her brother-in-law said, and the tears had come into 
her eyes at his earnest pleading. She held her breath 
now for her sister’s answer. • 

After what Mr. Barrow had said, meaning it so 


THE INFANTRY DEPLOYS. 


91 


thoroughly, as was evident, Agnes would have no 
one but herself to thank if she was not happy in the 
future. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Barrow,’’ said his wife in reply. 
‘‘ I am sure it is not my desire that we should be 
always bickering ; but, Mr. Barrow, let me ask one 
favor of you.” 

“Certainly, my dear wife.” And her husband bent 
forward, eagerly, to hear what he could do for her. 
In his repentant mood, he hoped it was some very 
great favor she was going to ask. Something very 
difficult of performance, just not impossible, so that by 
granting it he could prove how thoroughly in earnest 
he was. 

“ Please don’t use that word ‘ deuced,’ — it is so 
coarse.” 

“ Is that the favor ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Mr. Barrow straightened himself up with a little 
nervous laugh. 

Sick as Agnes was, Becky could have taken her by 
the two shoulders and shaken her well. 

“ I had better look at the boy and leave,” was Mr. 
Barrow’s next remark. “Lombard told me not to 
talk too much.” 

Becky came forward at this juncture to act as ama- 
teur showman. She laid back wrap after wrap, until 
she revealed to the young father’s astonished vision 
the smallest thing in the human shape that he had 
ever laid eyes upon, possessing a very red and very 
wrinkled face, in fact, such a crabbed-looking little face 
that it might have belonged to a little old man of 
eighty, a small, round head opvered with a heavy suit 
of dark hair, and a pair of eyes closed so tightly that 
the lids were in a perfect pucker. Otis gazed in won- 
der. That funny little old-man-looking thing was his 
son ! He turned to Becky in all innocence and igno- 
rance, and ventured on one inquiry : 

“ How many days before its eyes will be open ?” 


92 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Becky looked at him in amazement and disgust. 

“ Go,” she said, giving him a push. “ I agree with 
my husband. You’d better not talk too much. Mr. 
Barrow, this is not a puppy, it is a hoy 

The new-made father made his exit from the room, 
covered with infamy. 

After having closed the door upon him, Mrs. Lom- 
bard resumed her seat and her sewing. She heaved a 
deep sigh as she glanced at the sick woman, and 
wished from the bottom of her heart that Agnes and 
Otis were as happy as herself and Dr. Lombard. 
There had been very little romance in their wooing or 
their wedding. But there had been just as little calcu- 
lation or deception. Her life was passed in a happy, 
tranquil round of home joys and home duties, — Dr. 
Lombard and the old major finding their most exciting 
interest in the never-ceasing warfare of the chess- 
table. Then there was a great event in store for Tan- 
glewood, too, — an event that was being looked forward 
to by a proudly-expectant husband as well as a happy 
wife. It was this that made Becky so sorry for the 
young couple at Aland. God sends these little angel- 
messengers to rivet the links of the love-chain that 
girdles true hearts in true homes, and Otis seemed to 
greet the heaven-sent messenger aright ; but Agnes, — 
ah, Agnes I — has she a heart ? asked Becky, of her- 
self. Has she no feeling for her husband? Why 
could she not have met his advance in the spirit in 
which it was intended ? So Becky sat and worried, 
but could do not one earthly thing toward mending 
matters in her sister’s unhappy home. 

* 5|« * * Jjs 

Balph was the namei£nally decided on in family 
conclave, so as “ Ralph” young master Barrow was 
entered upon the record of the family Bible. 

This new actor upon the stage was about three 
months old when Mr. Barrow received the following 
letter from his cousin, Paul Winchester; 


TEE INFANTRY DEPLOYS. 


93 


“ My dear old Otis, — I expect you think I treated 
the announcement of your boy’s birth very cavalierly, 
but events have been crowding so fast and thick upon 
me in the last six months that I have positively had 
no time for writing. 

“Before I proceed to a detailed account of what 
those events are, let me offer you my most hearty con- 
gratulations, dear old boy, and you will please present 
the same with my friendliest regards to Mrs. Barrow. 
You will please, also, return the same by mail, as I 
am writing this to you within twenty-four hours after 
the birth of my own boy. Tell Mrs. Barrow that 
Mrs. Winchester says she is ' dying’ to become ac- 
quainted with her and compare babies. I would have 
liked to have named the young one for you, but Jeannie 
pleaded for ‘ Charles,’ as having been her father’s 
name, so Charles it is, or rather Charlie it will be when 
it becomes enough of a human to demand an appellation. 

“ Now to less important items than the advent of 
the two young editions of our two old selves. I am 
going to astonish you, Ote, by a piece of news far 
more wonderful than the every-day occurrence of a 
baby’s appearance on the stage. I am a rich man and 
a gentleman of leisure ! At least Jeannie thinks I ought 
to be a gentleman of leisure ; but I cling to my office 
and shingle as the last faint struggle of independence 
on the part of a man who used to flatter himself he 
was going to do great things ; but ‘ there is a destiny 
that shapes our ends,’ etc., — you know the rest. 
Well, about two months after you were married, I had 
settled myself comfortably in this goodly town of 

P , and was looking forward in a Micawberish 

frame of mind, not finding time hang heavily, for I 
still kept reading law pretty industriously. 

“I had very comfortable lodgings in a private 
boarding-house. I will always think my good angel 
directed me to that house, Otis, for there I found my 
little wife. It won’t do for a man to boast of his own 
possessions, but I wish you knew her, Otis. She is 


94 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES, 


just the^ brightest, prettiest, most winsome thing that 
God ever sent upon earth for the blessing of one man 
and the confusion of many. She was lonely and un- 
happy when I first became acquainted with her, and it 
was not until after we had been married long enough 
for her to forget all her past trouble, that I knew my- 
self what a sunbeam I had caught. 

“Now to the Arabian Nights’ part of my story. 
Boarding in the same house with us was a very rich 
and very lonely old lady by the name of Crouch. 
She was ever so rich, but preferred boarding with 
Mrs. Walker (who was an old-time friend of hers) to 
living in her own big old house and be cheated and 
worried out of her life by hirelings. 

“About a month after my marriage, Mrs. Walker 
had the misfortune to lose her house by fire. I must 
confess that after I had carried my precious little wife 
to a safe place I had no particular object in returning 
to the scene of the fire save one of common humanity; 
but, as I was starting back, Jeannie called after me in 
a perfect agony of fear to save poor old Mrs. Crouch ; 
she knew nobody would be thinking of the old lady. 
I tore back to the burning house. Everything, of 
course, was in the wildest confusion. Where was old 
Mrs. Crouch ? Nobody knew. She had been for- 
gotten by everybody. Well, to make a long story 
short, I contrived to rescue the old lady from what 
would certainly have been her grave in a very few 
moments. I conveyed her, half dead from fright, to 
the house where I had left my wife. We were all 
kindly taken care of there for the night, and the next 
day Mrs. Crouch proposed that we should accompany 
her to her own home, the house she had closed up on 
account of her own gloom and loneliness. We con- 
sented to accept her hospitality, temporarily. After 
we had been with her about two weeks, I told her one 
day that I had succeeded in finding an excellent board- 
ing-house. She turned round on me in a genuine 
fury, and said: ‘Just because she was so happy with 


THE INFANTRY DEPLOYS. 


95 


Jeannie I was determined to separate them. Said 
that she had got to loving Jeannie like a child, and 
what would become of her if we went away and left 
her alone in that old barn. Besides that, she never 
had got over the fright of that fire, and never would. 
She didn’t know at what moment she might be taken 
very ill, and not a friend near her. It was barbarous. 
Then look at Jeannie’s face : ever since she had had 
the great old garden to run loose in, the color had been 
brightening in her cheeks until she was a perfect pic- 
ture to look at.’ So the old lady went on until it 
ended in our staying. She proved to be right about 
the shock to her nervous system, for before we had 
been living with her a month, the poor old soul was 
taken very ill, — a low, nervous fever, the doctors called 
it. My wife nursed her like an angel, but we couldn’t 
bring her round, and after laying in bed six weeks, she 
died peacefully and calmly, with her head resting on 
Jeannie’s shoulder. 

“ It was as great a surprise to us as to anybody, 
when her will came to be read, to hear that she had 
left everything to my wife and me. She had no rela- 
tives, and she had originally disposed of her property 
in public charities ; but she altered her intentions after 
the fire, and the wording of the new will read : I leave 
everything that I am possessed of to the man who 
saved my life and to his wife, who has been more than 
a daughter to me ever since that frightful night. 

‘‘ So now, old boy, you have a full explanation of how 
I became a rich man by the merest accident. 

“ Jeannie bids me write that our house is full big, and 
she would be so happy to have you come on with your 
wife and boy this summer. 

“ May I hope that you will accept her invitation ? 
You know full well how much pleasure it would give 
me to clasp hands with you once more. 

“As in the olden time, 

“Your friend and cousin, 

“ P. Winchester.” 


96 


BEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


This letter was read by both Mr. and Mrs. Barrow. 

Agnes winced slightly at the eulogiums Paul lav- 
ished upon his sweet young wife. She astonished her 
husband by making a proposal : 

“Let us accept Mrs. Winchester’s invitation.” 

“ With all my heart,” responded Otis. 

The months moved on, converting the little, red, 
wrinkled, wizened-faced baby that had been such a 
puzzle to its father into a white, plump, bright-eyed 
boy, that was rapidly becoming the light of Otis Bar- 
row’s eyes, when the crowning blessing was sent into 
the modest little home at Tanglewood. 

Becky was a little disappointed that a brown-eyed 
girl was her portion, but her heart was too full of 
thankfulness to murmur. She called her little one 
Bertha. In two years from that time Mrs. Barrow 
gave birth to a daughter. 

It is with these four children that our story is to 
deal principally. 

And now, my little mariners, I have fairly launched 
you upon life’s troubled stream. Whether your tiny 
barks are pre-ordained to fair winds and smooth waters, 
remains yet to be seen. Whether in the storms that 
may betide you they are destined to ride the waves of 
adverse fate triumphantly, or doomed to sink beneath 
the shock, is still in the womb of time. 


MATRIMONIAL COGITATIONS. 


9T 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MATRIMONIAL COGITATIONS. 

Ten years had flown rapidly or rolled heavily along 
(according to the diflferent ideas on that subject enter- 
tained by each individual human atom) since little 
Ralph Barrow had come into this world to inherit his 
father’s property and gladden his father’s heart; to 
“ worry his mother’s existence out of her, and make 
her look a thousand years old to afford old Dora a 
renewed chance of displaying her skill as nurse and 
child-spoiler, as well as otherwise to fulfill the unknown 
destiny apportioned him by fate. 

So far fate’s decrees had not been such as to pro- 
voke any great outcry or remonstrance on the part of 
the young gentleman. Barring an occasional and spas- 
modic display of maternal discipline, things had gone 
very smoothly indeed. His father was all that was 
kind and indulgent, ever ready to gratify any wish his 
boy might express. Old Dora was at once his loving 
tyrant and tyrannical slave. His ponies and dogs 
were the perfection of boyish possessions ; and Helen, 
the little sister two years younger than himself, had 
just enough of the hoyden in her to make her a very 
desirable companion in his boy plays. On the whole, 
Mr. Ralph Barrow’s chubby, handsome little face was 
seldom ever disfigured by a frown, or his bright, honest 
eyes dimmed by a tear. 

Helen, as I have told you, was vivacious to the bor- 
der of hoydenism. She was a little, bright, skipping, 
jumping, pug-nosed piece of mortality, who made more 
work in the house in an hour than a dozen ordinary 
children could have made in a day. Who outraged 
her lady mother continually by her supreme contempt 


98 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


for fine clothes and total disregard to her general ap- 
pearance. Who thought it much “ nicer’’ to pull off 
her shoes and stockings and go wading in the lake with 
“Ralphy,” than to be dressed up in ribbons and 
flounces and take a ride with mamma. Who promised, 
indeed, at the early age of eight, to be perfectly incor- 
rigible,” as Mrs. Barrow informed Mrs. Lombard with 
a sigh of despair. Then Aunt Becky would smile at 
the poor little incorrigible, and smooth her rumpled 
hair, and press upon her rosy lips a kiss far tenderer 
and fonder than the wild little thing ever received from 
her mother, whose lips, alas, were far more prone to 
words of fault-finding and scolding and bitterness than 
to giving caresses. 

Ten years had flown since Otis Barrow had stood 
beside his wife’s sick-bed and been smitten by remorse 
at the sight of her pale face into expressing his regret 
for past grievances, and his earnest desire for their 
future happiness. 

With what result? 

The man had really meant what he said, and only 
asked to be met half-way. But Agnes Barrow had no 
heart, and, therefore, she could not respond to words 
dictated by another heart. The language of the emo- 
tions was dead letter to her. She had married Mr. 
Barrow for his money, and if she had had it to do over 
again she would do just as she had done. She had no 
sentimental aspirations after true homes and united 
hearts, etc. She was very well satisfied with things 
as they were. She was the richest woman in the 
neighborhood. Her silver, her servants, her horses, 
her equipages were given up to be beyond comparison. 
She was happy enough. What did a little matrimonial 
spat now and then amount to ? All married people 
quarreled, she supposed. True, Mr. Barrow did not 
love her half as well as he did when they were first 
married. But what husband did after ten years of the 
inevitably disenchanting influence of daily association ? 
It was very natural that he should have transferred all 


MATRIMONIAL COGITATIONS. 


99 


his affection to his children. For her part, she was 
very glad he had, for it saved her a world of trouble 
with the noisy little things, besides keeping him in a 
good humor and leaving him less time for prowling 
around the house in search of cobwebs and dusty 
corners, and other like domestic bugaboos. She sup- 
posed there were happier homes than hers. In fact, 
she knew there were, for there was Becky and Dr. 
Lombard (but then they were perfectly ridiculous) ; but 
she presumed there were quite as many just as bad 
and a few even worse than her own. She had only 
one trouble. Mr. Barrow drank so much lately. It 
made his nose so red and his voice so loud. If it 
wasn’t for those two disagreeable little consequents she 
shouldn’t in the least mind it, for he was always per- 
fectly good-natured when under the influence of liquor. 
She could do anything she pleased with him at such 
times. In fact, it was decidedly the most propitious 
moment for asking favors of him. This was Mrs. 
Barrow’s view of her home-life and its attendant re- 
sponsibilities after twelve years of married life. 

Mr. Barrow was not quite so complacent. His mar- 
riage had been a great mistake. His home-life was a 
decided failure. He had married this woman, loving 
her, and desiring honestly to make her happy. She 
had shown him very plainly that she had married 
him for his money, and that whether he was happy or 
not was a matter of the very smallest possible impor- 
tance to her. After the birth of their child he had 
wished, for its sake, that all bickerings should cease. 
But it takes two to make connubial harmony. He had 
met with no assistance from his cold-hearted wife, so 
discord had remained triumphant in his home. He had 
long since ceased even to try and love his wife. He 
knew her, at last, for what she really was, — a shallow, 
vain, heartless woman, whose one ambition was to 
outshine all with whom she came in contact, and who 
had not even the grace to feel thankful to the man who 
afforded her the means of so doing. Since his children 


100 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


had been born he had not wanted for loving com- 
panionship ; but in the long, dull evenings, when their 
tired little limbs were laid to rest, after the day’s active 
enjoyment, when their bright eyes were closed in early 
and peaceful slumber, the disappointed man found the 
hours wearisome in the extreme. He had no one to 
talk to, for there were so few subjects that he and his 
wife agreed upon, that let the topic be what it might, 
it was almost sure to wind up in an altercation. Then, 
again, he was not a man who could find solace for the 
present by burying himself in musty tomes belonging 
to the past, — so beyond his daily newspaper his read- 
ing rarely ever extended. There were but two re- 
sources left, — smoking and drinking. He generally 
retired to the library as soon as the children had kissed 
him good-night, and there, with his feet on the fender, 
his cigar-stand and decanter of brandy on a table close 
at hand, he would sit far on into the night, — smoking 
and drinking brandy-and-water, and brooding and 
making his nose red I 

Brooding over his wrongs and disappointments, 
until he had convinced himself that there never was 
so good a man as Otis Barrow so abominably ill used 
before ; nor so wicked a woman as Agnes Barrow 
who had such unmerited blessings showered upon her 
guilty head. She was enough to drive a man mad. 
Any man but himself would have committed suicide 
long ago. He didn’t know but what it would be the 
best thing he could do, anyhow. He would punish her 
with remorse, if he couldn’t touch her in any other 
way. Yes, he thought he’d do it. But, then, the 
little man and Helen, poor little scamps, he wouldn’t 
like to leave them with nobody to love them or pet 
them. He’d wait. He’d think about it. He’d take an- 
other glass on it. His brooding cogitations would be 
interrupted long enough for the mixing and drinking 
of another glass of brandy-and-water. Then the 
master of Aland would lay back in his easy-chair, not 
brooding, not even thinking, — simply tasting, breath- 


MATRIMONIAL COGITATIONS. 


101 


ing, existing. Presently, as the bran dy-and- water in 
its “realistic’’ form passes from the palate into an 
“ idealistic” form within Mr. Otis Barrow’s brain, men- 
tal labor is resumed. Under a changed aspect, how- 
ever, entirely owing, you will perceive, to the “ real- 
istic” and “ idealistic 

This world was a very go#d world in its way if 
people would only think so. Wher^i|i the devil was 
the use of fretting and fuming through life, howling 
and whining like a whipped hound ? True, he might 
have found a more domestic wife. But he supposed 
it was all a lottery. He supposed there were men in 
the world worse off than himself in a connubial way. 
I) — n it, if Agnes would only be half civil, they’d get 
along well enough! He believed he’d talk to her. Hot 
scold — devil a thing did he gain by that. Somehow 
or other she always came off victor. He’d pet her a 
little. Yes — he’d go pet her some. He wanted some- 
thing to pet, and the chicks were in bed. This was a 
very good world. A very good world, indeed, sir. 
And — a — that was devilish good brandy. Yery good 
brandy, indeed, sir. Very good world, sir. Yery good 
bran-dy — sir — very good-night, sir. Yery. 

So much for the combined effects of three tumblers 
of brandy-and- water and — Agnes Snowe. 


102 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES, 




CHAPTER XY. 

A GOOD-BY. 

Across the lake, at Tanglewood, life glided along 
quietly and peacefully. Not quite so quietly as in the 
olden time, for there was a small element of noise and 
merriment in the little person of Bertha Lombard that 
prevented folks from stagnating in the old house. 

She a very pretty child, with soft, dark eyes 
like her lather’s ; and all her Cousin Helen’s rich 
dresses and flowing ribbons could not hide the fact 
that plain Becky was being compensated for her own 
youthful shortcomings in the beauty of her daughter, 
while the beautiful Agnes was being punished (maybe) 
for having bartered her beautiful face in having a de- 
cidedly plain-looking child. If the mother had only 
been as philosophically indifferent to this fact as Helen 
herself, there would have been no heart-burning. 

But Mrs. Barrow resented the fact of Bertha’s 
beauty, and what was worse, she was not wise enough 
to conceal her resentment. She was cold, almost to 
harshness, to her poor, little brown-eyed niece, so that 
Bertha never went to Aland unless forced to do so by 
her mother’s express command. “ She was afraid of 
Aunt Agnes,” she would plead. “ Aunt Agnes looked 
at her as if she had been naughty. She couldn’t have 
any fun where aunt was.” 

On the contrary, nothing delighted the youthful heir 
and heiress of Aland more than a visit to Aunt Rebecca. 

“Aunt Becky did have such nice things to eat, and 
she let ’em do just what they pleased, so it wasn’t 
somethin’ real down bad,” Ralphy would explain. 

“And then, mamma,” Helen would exclaim, her face 
beaming with the light of remembered joys, “ we does 


A LONG GOOD-BY. 


103 


have such fun knocking down dirt-daubers’ nests and 
picking out the little worms for Cousin Berthy’s little 
chickens.” ' 

“ Picking worms out I knocking dirt-daubers’ nests 
down !” Mrs. Barrow would cry with horror. 

“Oh, yes, mammal” the “incorrigible” would con- 
tinue, in an explanatory voice,# and the little chickens 
does love ’em so much.” And she would bring her two 
chubby hands together with a gesture indicative of in- 
tense enjoyment. 

“ And the spiders,” Ralph would add, by way of 
jogging his sister’s memory. 

“ Oh, yes, mamma I we gets our laps right full of 
little spiders and bugs, and we goes round the dinin’- 
room and slaps the flies with wet dish-rags, and gives 
’em all to Cousin Berthy’s little ducks. Oh, mamma ! 
they do waddle so funny. Mamma, please mam, let 
me have some little chickens and little ducks, like 
Berthy. Berthy does have so much fun.” And the 
bright little face would grow pleading in its earnest- 
ness. 

“ Come here, Helen,” Mrs. Barrow would say, in 
her loftiest manner. “What with your worms and 
spiders and bugs, 1 suppose that beautiful plaid will 
have to be thrown away.” And she would take up the 
skirt of the little dress in her maternal fingers, and fix 
her maternal glance upon the small offender’s face in 
severe condemnation. 

“ Oh, no, mamma, ’taint spoilt ; Aunt Becky always 
takes off my dress and sash and puts one of Berthy’s 
dark ones on and a white apron, and then I can play 
so nice. I hate that old sash, mamma ! Please, mam, 
make me some dresses like Berthy’s ; her’s can wash, 
and she don’t have to be always thinking about the 
dirt. Mamma, may I have some chickens ?” 

If Mr. Barrow was present during the dialogue, the 
chickens were promised and the little heart made glad. 
If not, she was told to “ hush talking nonsense and 
leave the room,” which she was pretty apt to do, look- 


104 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ing as sulky as it was in her bright little nature to 
look. 

But I have wandered back to the Barrows without 
in the least intending it. 

The child Bertha was blessed above her poor, little 
rich cousins in another respect. Where they had but 
one heart that loved them to divide between the two, 
Bertha had three hearts brimful of love all for her 
own. 

She was loved and petted enough for a dozen 
children by her father and mother, to say nothing of 
her grandfather, who was never happy unless he could 
see her face or hear her voice. For her sake he seemed 
to have burnished up the half-forgotten lore of earlier 
and brighter days, and hour after hour would the old 
gray-haired man sit in one sunny spot in the gallery, 
with the child on his lap, one wrinkled hand clasping 
her small white one, while the other wandered in 
tremulous fondness through her clustering curls, tell- 
ing story after stbry, until the little head would droop 
under the mesmeric touch, and the lids close softly over 
the lovely brown eyes, and Bertha would be asleep. 
Then the old man would kiss the closed lids, and call 
somebody softly to come lay his pet down ; and the 
somebody who came would generally be Becky, who 
would lift the limber little form in her strong, loving 
clasp, and lay it tenderly down in its little bed, and 
then she, too, would stoop and kiss the sweet lips be- 
fore turning away. So love and caresses followed 
Bertha Lombard through all her early life. 

It was about this period, late in the fall of the year 
that Ralph Barrow saw his tenth birthday, that busi- 
ness called Mr. Barrow to New Orleans. 

He announced at the breakfast-table, one morning, 
that he would have to go down in a day or two from 
that time. 

“How long will you be in the city?^’ asked Mrs. 
Barrow, mentally resolving that she would go too. 


A LONG GOOD-BY. 


105 


“ It is impossible to say ; probably ov^er two weeks.” 

Nothing more was said at that time ; but that night, 
after Mr. Barrow’s third tumbler, Mrs. Barrow entered 
the library, looking very amiable, and before she came 
out of it her husband had promised to take her with 
him. 

The next morning the children were informed that 
they were to spend two weeks with Bertha, and were 
to be very good while mamma and papa were gone, 
and Helen was further informed that she was to be 
allowed to take her doll with her, — the doll that Aunt 
Julia Yerzenay had sent all the way from Paris. But 
the pug-nose took a contemptuously upward curve 
at this proposition. 

“ That big, old thing! It wasn’t made to play with. 
Berthy had the nicest kind of dolls. She didn’t want 
to take hers over there.” 

“ Oh, Ralphy I” she exclaimed, in an ecstasy, “ two 
whole weeks at the dirt-daubers ; just to think I” 

“ An’ nobody to scold a feller ’cause his nails are 
black,” rejoined Ralphy, whose offenses in that line 
were very black indeed. 

From all of which you will infer that ‘‘ home, sweet 
home” was not “ the dearest spot on earth ” to the two 
young Barrows, who furthermore entertained the 
highly heretical desire to inform the tedious individual 
who so querulously inquired, “ What is home without 
a mother ?” that home, without their mother, might be 
a very jolly place indeed. 

The day before the one fixed for their departure, Mr. 
Barrow himself took the two children to Tanglewood, 
where he knew they were always very welcome, and 
informed Mrs. Lombard of his desire to leave them with 
her until his return. 

“ I would like to have taken them with me,” he said, 
in conclusion, “ but Mrs. Barrow seems to think it will 
spoil her trip entirely.” 

“ Oh, they will be much happier here with Cousin 
Bertha and the chickens, and the ducks, won’t 
10 


106 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


they V' asked Aunt Becky, as she untied Helen’s hat- 
strings. 

“ And the dirt-dauhers I” added Mr. Barrow, with 
an amused laugh. 

“ Did they tell Aggie that ?” inquired Mrs. Lombard, 
looking as amused as Mr. Barrow. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Helen, not waiting for her father 
to answer, “ and mamma was mad ; but, then, mamma’s 
always mad ’bout somethin’.” 

“ Helen I” said her aunt, reprovingly. 

Then the child looked ashamed, as she always did 
when Aunt Becky said “ Helen” so solemnly. 

Mr. Barrow stayed until it was quite dark, talking 
with the old major and Dr. Lombard. Then he called 
Balph and Helen to him, and kissed them repeatedly 
by way of saying good-by. His last kiss was given to 
Helen. He put his arms around his little daughter 
and kissed her upon the eyes, the cheeks, the lips. 
Then he went away quickly. 

“ Aunt,” said Helen, turning wonderingly to Mrs. 
Lombard, “ what made papa tell me such a long good- 
by ?” 

Mrs. Lombard laughed a little meaningless laugh, 
as people laugh when they don’t know what else to do, 
and told Helen it was time for her and Bertha to go to 
bed, which is where children pretty generally are sent 
if they chance to ask one of their unanswerable ques- 
tions at or near bedtime. Becky couldn’t answer her 
little niece, so she packed her off to bed. 


THE LAST ALTERCATION 


lot 


CHAPTER XYL 

THE LAST ALTERCATION. 

The business which had called Mr. Barrow to New 
Orleans had been satisfactorily settled, and he was 
ready to return to Aland at the end of eight days from 
the time he had left it. 

As usual, Mrs. Barrow’s wishes failed to coincide 
with those of her husband. 

Start home to-morrow, when Faust is to be played 
the night after ? Impossible, Mr. Barrow. I may never 
have an opportunity of hearing it again rendered by 
so fine a troupe. I must stay.” 

“Agnes, do you know that I feel far from well ? Ho 
you know that the chill I had the other night while 
you were at Mrs. Hunt’s reception bordered so closely 
upon a congestive chill that I should not care to have 
another like it ?” 

“ The idea, Mr. Barrow, of a swamper making such 
an ado over a chill I You were by yourself the other 
night, and felt a little nervous, I suppose. If you had 
gone with me, as I wished you to do, you would not 
have noticed the chill. But you need not have an- 
other. You can take medicine all to-day and stay in 
bed all to-morrow. I must hear Faust, Mr. Barrow. 
Moreover, I have had no chance to wear my black vel- 
vet yet, and if I don’t wear it to the opera on Thursday, 
I may as well not have had it made.” 

“ Excellent and unanswerable reasons, madam, for 
prolonging our stay,” replied her husband, bitterly. 

“ There’s no use getting cross about it. I am cer- 
tain if you hated that plantation as badly as I do, you 
would be in no such great hurry to get back there.” 

“ You seem to lose sight of the fact that if it were 


108 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


not for that ‘ hateful plantation,’ you would be minus 
the black velvet that it is of such vital importance you 
should wear to the opera.” 

“You are one of the few wealthy men of my ac- 
quaintance, Mr. Barrow, who absolutely hates to see 
his wife dressing well,” retorted the lady, growing ir- 
relevant, after the fashion of most angry women. 

Mr. Barrow seemed disposed not to enter into an 
argument upon that threadbare subject, so he merely 
said, by way of closing the altercation, “ We leave for 
home to-morrow, Mrs. Barrow,” and left the room. 

Left to herself, Agnes burst into a torrent of angry, 
passionate tears. The idea of being torn away just as 
the crowning enjoyment of her whole trip was offered 
her. She had been invited by a select party to accom- 
pany them to the opera, and there was a rival beauty 
to be in the party, a dashing young widow, whom 
Mrs. Barrow burned to humble. The black velvet had 
been made with no other object, and now to have to 
leave the field uucontested, when she was so sure of 
a glorious victory. It was too hard. No woman ever 
before had such a brute of a husband. She almost 
wished he would get sick before to-morrow. Not very 
sick, you know ; not sick enough to hurt ; just sick 
enough to keep him in bed until after she had heard 
Faust and worn the black velvet and annihilated the 
little black-eyed widow. 

She had all three wishes granted. 

The above interchange of amenities had taken place 
in the hotel room occupied by the Barrows just after 
Mrs. Barrow had come in from her morning’s shop- 
ping. She had found her husband lying on the sofa in 
their room. He had given her the information relative 
to his determination to start for the plantation the next 
day, and, after having held his share in the squabble 
matrimonial, as above recorded, he had left the room, 
telling his wife curtly that he should expect to find her 
ready for the four o’clock dinner. 

The hour named was an earlier one than Mrs. Bar- 


THE LAST ALTERCATION. 


109 


row’s ultra-fashionable ideas approved of, but deeming 
it wise not to provoke her husband any further that 
day, she rang at once for her hairdresser, and was 
soon deep in the mysteries of an elaborate dinner 
toilet. 

She was dressed and waiting. Her little jeweled 
watch informed her that the hour of four had arrived 
and passed into the time-book of the past by full fif- 
teen minutes, before her usually painfully-punctual hus- 
band made his appearance. 

When he did come, Mrs. Barrow actually started at 
his appearance. She remembered with a thrill of 
guilty remorse her wish that he might be taken sick 
enough to prevent their return to Aland that week. 

His face was livid. His lips were purple and his 
eyes were bloodshot and feverish. His whole frame 
was convulsed with the force of the ague that had 
seized upon him as he was walking upon the streets. 
He strode to the bed and flung himself heavily upon it. 

Mrs. Barrow sprang forward to assist him. 

“ I am sick,” he said, as well as his chattering teeth 
would permit. ‘‘ Ring for a man to help you.” 

Mrs. Barrow rang the bell, and with the assistance 
of the waiter succeeded in getting her husband com- 
fortably to bed. 

There was a wild, frightened look in his eyes that 
struck her with surprise. 

“ It is nothing but a chill, Mr. Barrow. You have 
seen hundreds in your life just as severe as this one 
without anybody dying.” 

“ Send for a doctor,” said the sick man, not seeming 
to derive any comfort from her words. 

“ Certainly, if you wish it,” said Agnes, with a slight 
sneer. Then she turned to the waiter and bade him 
request the proprietor to send her a physician whom he 
could recommend. 

Within twenty minutes from that time there came a 
slight knock at the door of No. 60, and opening it, Mrs. 

10 * 


no 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Barrow found herself face to face with the strange 
doctor. 

As we are destined to become well acquainted with 
this gentleman, I will reserve my description of him 
for another chapter. 

“ Mrs. Barrow he inquired, holding his hat in one 
hand, as he completed a somewhat obsequious bow. 

“It is.” 

“ My name is Reynard, madam. I was informed 
that my services were required professionally by a 
Mr. Barrow, in No. 60.” 

“Ah, you are the physician. Walk in, please ; I 
sent for you at my husband’s reqnest, although I am 
at a loss to account for his unusual alarm when he has 
seen so many similar attacks in others.” 

“ He is not subject to chills himself, then ?” asked 
the physician, who had by this time advanced to the 
bedside of the sick man. He seemed to be sleeping 
heavily. 

“No, for a swamner he has managed to keep re- 
markably clear of them. He has been quite quiet 
ever since I got him to bed, and seems to be sleeping 
nicely.” 

The man of science bent over the bedside and lis- 
tened attentively to the heavy, labored breathing of 
the invalid. He did not seem so well satisfied as the 
wife about his patient’s quiet sleeping, for all of a 
sudden he rose from his stooping posture and rang the 
bell violently. Then he pulled off his coat as if he 
were going to work in earnest, and, when the bell was 
answered, he ordered mustard, and chloroform, and 
brandy, and such a lot of things all to be brought 
with lightning speed, that Mrs. Barrow began trem- 
bling in vague alarm. 

“What is it, doctor?” she asked, in a frightened 
undertone. 

“ 4- congestive chill, madam,” answered the physi- 
cian, looking very grave. 

Then, frightened and powerless, Agnes sank upon 


THE LAST ALTERCATION, 


111 


the sofa, with the silken robes rustling around her, 
watching, with eager, scared-looking eyes, every move- 
ment of the physician and the waiter as they worked 
silently and vigorously to restore warmth to her hus- 
band’s chilled body. 

It seemed to her that an eternity had passed when 
she heard the physician heave a sigh of evident relief, 
and, glancing at him, she perceived at once that some 
favorable change had taken place. 

He is better, isn’t he ?” she asked, approaching 
the bedside. 

“ Decided change for the better in the condition of 
the skin. We will bring him round this time, I think ; 
but another such attack will almost certainly prove 
fatal.” 

Agnes returned to her sofa, experiencing a genuine 
sensation of thankfulness. She did not love her hus- 
band ; but his having come into her presence in that 
fearful condition, so immediately after her wicked wish, 
had frightened her terribly. She was relieved from 
her remorseful fright now, — the doctor had said he 
could bring him round. So, after all, things had not 
turned out so disastrously. She would be very careful 
that he should not have a return, for the third conges- 
tive chill was always fatal. She would nurse Mr. 
Barrow very carefully ; but, of course, now they could 
not leave before she had heard Faust, and worn her 
black velvet, and crushed Mrs. Noyes, the little black- 
eyed widow. 

" Dr. Reynard was correct. Mr. Barrow did not suc- 
cumb to this second attack. Before daybreak on Wed- 
nesday morning his fever was entirely gone, and he 
lay quiet and free from all pain, though very much 
weakened by the severity of the attack. 

Of course, in his condition, to start on a journey 
was out of the question. It was to be expected from 
the nature of these chills that he should have another 
attack after one day’s intermission. To ward off that 
attack would be a matter of vital importance. He had 


112 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


often said, in bitterness of soul, that he had better 
die, that it would be no hardship to him to leave this 
world, and a hundred other things, such as we all give 
utterance to when our souls are dark ; but, now that 
he had been brought face to face with the dread possi- 
bility, he recoiled with horror. He did not want to 
die. His heart yearned lovingly over his little chil- 
dren. He did not want to die and leave them to the 
tender mercies of their cold-hearted mother, and, ulti- 
mately, to a stepfather, who might prove worse than 
cold-hearted. Of course, Agnes would marry again, 
and soon, too, for there would not be in her case even 
the usual amount of regret to keep her from taking unto 
herself a second husband. This thought hardly cost 
him a pang. He did not feel bitterly about his possi- 
ble successor ; he did not think he would be an object 
for anybody’s envy. All his thoughts, all his wishes, 
clustered round his son and daughter. He determined 
to guard his life carefully. He would not die if he 
could help it. During the whole of Wednesday Mrs. 
Barrow remained in close attendance on her husband. 

Dr. Reynard had come early in the morning of that 
day, had pronounced favorably upon the case, and 
gone away, promising to call in again the succeeding 
morning. 

All day long Mr. Barrow seemed comparatively well. 

Thursday morning came ; so did Dr. Reynard. Pa- 
tient reported favorably. Minute directions left with 
Mrs. Barrow, and promises to return after an early 
dinner, as the critical time would be that afternoon. 
At four o’clock that afternoon Mrs. Barrow’s heart 
gave an exultant bound. All danger was passed, and 
she could go to the opera that night without in the least 
outraging the proprieties. 

By eight o’clock she was arrayed in the black velvet. 
Diamonds flashed from her neck, her bosom, her hair, 
and the light of anticipated conquest made her eyes 
brilliant and flushed her cheeks. She looked gloriously 
handsome. 


THE LAST ALTERCATION. II3 

She came and stood by her husband’s bedside. “ You 
don’t mind my going out to-night, Mr. Barrow, do you ? 
You know all danger of another attack is passed, or I 
shouldn’t think of such a thing.” 

“ No, I don’t mind,” answered Otis, feebly, and turned 
away from his radiant wife with a sigh full of bitterness. 

Then Mrs. Barrow rang the bell, and told the boy 
who answered it that she would pay him well for 
staying in the room with her husband until she should 
return from the opera. Having done which, she con- 
sidered that she had performed her wifely duty in the 
most unexceptionable manner. 

Her escort called for her in a very few moments, 
and she was soon whirling toward the opera-house, 
full of bright anticipations as to how chagrined Mrs. 
Noyes would be when she and her diamonds and her 
black velvet flashed upon the scene. 

As the door closed upon her stately figure, Otis Bar- 
row turned his face to the wall and groaned in anguish 
of spirit. And this was his wife, — this soulless creat- 
ure was his’ whole dependence in life for loving com- 
panionship and domestic happiness ! He thought he 
had sounded the depths of her shallow nature long ere 
this ; but this cruel desertion of him, on his sick-bed, 
surpassed anything in the way of heartlessness that 
even she had ever been guilty of. Possibly he was 
rendered peculiarly morbid and sensitive by physical 
weakness, else he would not have been so remarkably 
agitated at what was after all merely a new expression 
of the old heartlessness. 

“ Oh, Agnes, Agnes I of what are you made ?” he 
groaned aloud. 

“ Sick, sir ?” asked the attendant, briskly ; for ho 
was to be paid to watch the sick man. 

“ Leave the room !” said Mr. Barrow, bounding up 
in the bed and glaring fiercely at the man. 

“ But, sir, the lady,” began the attendant, in alarm. 

“Curse the lady!” roared the outraged husband. 
“ Do as I tell you.” 


114 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Tremblingly the man obeyed. He hastened from 
the room down to the office, where he informed the 
proprietor that the gentleman in No. 60 was certainly 
gone crazy, and recommended the sending for Dr. Rey- 
nard. 

The proprietor mounted the steps to No. 60 himself, 
to discover how much truth there might be in this 
statement. As he stood on the outside of the door he 
heard the inmate of the room raving in the wildest 
style. He knocked; but receiving no permission to 
enter, hesitated for a few moments before committing 
what might be considered an unwarrantable piece of 
intrusion. As he stood thus irresolute, he heard a 
heavy fall within the room. He tiyjned the latch 
quickly, and, entering, found his boarder prone upon 
the floor, writhing in the most horrible convulsion. 
He rang the bell furiously, then stooping over the 
fallen man, he raised him in his arms so that he could 
breathe more easily. Assistance came soon, and Dr. 
Reynard was sent for in hot haste. 

He came, but shook his head gravely. “ May die 
in it,’’ was his dictum, “ or may come out of it to die. 
Death either way.” 

He came out of it” to die. 

He looked around him and saw a crowd of strange 
men-faces. Faces full of curiosity, and nothing more. 
He was in a strange room, — in a strange place, among 
strange people. 

Where was the woman who had promised to stand 
by him ‘‘ in sickness and in health ?” Listening to 
Faust. 

His dim eyes wandered over the group of rough 
faces until they rested upon the physician’s. At last 
there was a face he had seen before. He motioned 
toward the group of people and then toward the door. 

“ He wishes you all to leave the room,” said the 
doctor, rightly interpreting the double motion. Mr. 
Barrow nodded assent, and was left alone with the 
physician. 


THE LAST ALTERCATION. 


115 


“ Pen and paper,” he said, in a feeble voice, pointing 
at the same time to a portable writing-desk, belonging 
to his wife, which stood upon the mantel-piece. The 
physician brought them. 

Write,” said the sick man, — “ quick, — to Paul Win- 
chester, P County, New York.” 

Dr. Keynard wrote the addreS quickly, in a clear 
business hand. Then the dying man went on : 

“ I am dying, Paul, — dying, without a friend near 
me. Look after my children. See that the laws of 
Louisiana are fairly administered" in their behalf. I 
ask no better will. Good-by, old friend ; pray God 
you may never know the desolation and the loneliness 
that are my portion in this the hour of my extremity. 
And go down on your knees and thank God that Agnes 
Snowe said ‘ no’ to you, twelve years ago, instead of 
‘yes.’ Signed Otis Barrow.” 

He paused in his dictation. He fixed an earnest, 
almost beseeching look upon the doctor’s face. He 
hoped he would contradict him, — that he would tell 
him he was not dying. But no such comfort came 
to him. Then the calmness of despair seized upon 
him. 

“ That is all,” he said, in the most composed voice ; 
for Dr. Keynard glanced up at him, with suspended 
pen, as if waiting to know what he should write next. 

“ You will dispatch it for me ?” he asked. 

“ Most certainly, my dear sir. But Mrs. Barrow, — 
has she been sent for?” 

“ Stop I” said the dying man, in a voice of more 
power than the experienced ear of the doctor had ever 
thought to hear from him again. Then he closed his 
eyes, his lips moved, and bending eagerly forward. 
Dr. Keynard caught these murmured words : 

“ God bless my children I Keep them from harm, 
and grant that my darling daughter grows up a dif- 
ferent woman from her cruel, cruel mother.” 

As the word “ mother” fluttered over the parched 
lips, the door opened and Mrs. Barrow entered, beam- 


116 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ing with the pleasure and excitement of the evening. 
She had heard nothing of the change in her husband’s 
condition. In a big hotel people have plenty to attend* 
to beside one sick or dying man, and so she stood 
within the chamber of death without one moment’s 
preparation for th^^wful presence she was to find 
there. ^ 

“You here, Dr. Reynard? Is Mr. Barrow sick 
again ?” And she came hastily forward, looking 
strangely out of keeping with the somber reality in 
her flashing diamonds and sweeping train. 

“ Mr. Barrow is dying, madam.” It was her hus- 
band who answered her questions, — answered them 
in a strange sepulchral voice that was hardly recog- 
nizable for his own. He seemed to gather all the 
waning energy of his fast-fleeting soul for one grand 
final elfort. He fastened his dim eyes upon her, and 
raised his hand as if about to call down Heaven’s 
fiercest wrath upon her head. 

His gaze, his gesture, froze the wretched woman 
with horror. With a wild shriek she fell upon her 
knees by his bedside and held out her white and 
jeweled arms with an imploring gesture. 

“ Do not curse me ! Otis, Otis, have mercy, and do 
not let the last words you speak to me on -earth be 
words of reproach I I see it all, — I know it all, — all 
my cruel heartlessness, my shameful abandonment of 
you on your sick-bed ! Otis, do not die. Live, and 
let me prove how sincerely I repent of all my unkind- 
ness.” 

She gazed into the dying man’s face in an agony of 
terrified remorse. 

The trembling hand had fallen upon the bed, and 
the wild look in his eyes had given place to one of 
grave and sorrowful pity. 

“ Poor, weak woman,” — he spoke in a low, feeble 
voice, — “ poor, weak woman, you will suffer enough 
for a little while. Remorse must be hard to bear, 
Agnes, but it will inevitably be your portion.” 


TEE LAST ALTERCATION. * HY 

She bowed her head upon the bed and gave vent to 
the most womanly tears he had ever seen her shed. 

He laid his hand upon the diamond spray that still 
glittered in the braided coronet upon her brow. 

“Ah, Agnesi if you had thought less of these 
glittering stones and more of your-,husband’s affection, 
our home would not have been'tHe kome it has been. 
I loved you, Agnes. Your happiness w-as very near 
to my heart at one time. But you cared nothing for 
my love. You turned from it to lavish your smiles 
and bright looks on strangers. I am dying now, wife, 
and I know full well that my place will be filled by 
another man before many years shall pass. I have 
but one favor to ask. See to it that you give my 
children an honest man for a stepfather. Their wealth 
will be a great temptation. Poor little ones, — poor 
little man, precious little woman 1 Be kind to them, 
Agnes. Be kinder, I mean.’’ 

He paused from very weakness. 

* “ Otis, say you forgive me. Say that you forgive 
me this night’s unkindness.” 

“ Will that do you any good ?” he asked, drearily. 
“Well — then — yes — I forgive you, Agnes Snowe, 
forgive you for having married me when you felt not 
one particle of affection for me. Porgive you for having 
returned my honest heart-offerings with scorn and 
contumely. Forgive you for my darkened hearth. 
Forgive you for my blighted life. Ask God to forgive 
you, too, Agnes, and with your asking, ask Him to 
give you a woman’s heart.” 

Strange pardon — that crushed its recipient by a 
grand summary of all her offenses, — a pardon that 
sounded strangely like a malediction. 

The excitement and the effort to talk had completely 
exhausted the waning strength of the dying man. He 
lay motionless. His fading glance fixed upon the 
starry diadem on his wife’s bowed head. Her sobs 
were the one sound that broke the stillness of the 
room. Dr. Reynard had stepped to a window in a 


118 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


distant part of the room, and while apparently gazing 
down upon the glimmering street-lamps, was eagerly 
listening to everything that passed between the dying 
man and his beautiful wife. 

:► * * * * * 

A new day was just dawning sad and gray, with 
its own share of clatter and din and ‘hurry and bustle, 
with its own burden of new-born hopes and busy plans 
and little joys and wearing troubles, as the soul of 
Otis Barrow passed into the presence of its Maker. 
The soul of many a worse man has passed from earth 
amid the sound of weeping and wailing and heart- 
broken sobs. 

One frightened, remorseful woman alone stood by 
this bedside, calling wildly on the fleeting soul for one 
word of kindness. One word — just one — of full, free 
pardon. But she pleaded in vain. His last thoughts, 
his last-murmured words, were all for his absent chil- 
dren: 

“ My little ones, — bless them, — God take care of them', 
— my precious ones — my boy — my girl.” i 

Dr. Reynard proved an invaluable assistant to the 
widow. He was assiduous in his attentions until 
after the last rites had been performed for Otis Bar- 
row and she had returned alone to Aland. Dr. Rey- 
nard was casting his bread upon the waters. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A COUNTERFEIT GENTLEMAN. 

Dr. Reynard had proved himself invaluable to 
Mrs. Barrow in her time of trouble. He had person- 
ally superintended the interment of her deceased hus- 
band in one of the beautiful cities of the dead that 
adorn the Crescent City. Had executed her orders re- 


A COUNTERFEIT GENTLEMAN. 


119 


specting an imposing monument to be erected above 
the spot. Had himself written a neat epitaph, accredit- 
ing the dead man with such an endless catalogue of 
virtues that he who read must needs have come to the 
conclusion th*t the relict of such a paragon should 
have been inconsolable for life, whether she was or 
not. Had called daily at the hotel to know if there 
was anything he could do for the fair mourner up to 
the morning on which she had departed for Aland, 
looking the personification of unmitigable woe in her 
heavy black bombazine and long crape veil. 

She had left a little note for the physician, written 
on black-edged paper, thanking him for his unparalleled 
kindness, and adding the hope that she might some 
day or other be able to show her appreciation of his 
goodness in some more substantial form than mere 
words of gratitude. She was gone, and there was no- 
thing left to do in the present but to wait patiently 
for the future. 

Dr. Reynard, or John Reynard, M.D., as his card 
would inform you, was a young man and an unmar- 
ried man. He was what is called in this slip-shod 
country of ours (where manufacture of “self” is the 
briskest business that is carried on) a self-made man. 
Taking his home manufacture into consideration, I 
suppose he would rank middling fair. 

The ground-work that nature had furnished for the 
grand superstructure that John Reynard was forever 
boastfully flaunting in the faces of men who hadn’t 
made themselves, consisted of a tolerably well-formed 
person, in stature rather under than over the medium 
size ; feet and hands not noticeable in any way ex- 
cepting that the nails of the latter might have been 
kept a little cleaner ; complexion of almost Spanish 
darkness ; a heavy suit of straight, black hair ; hand- 
some dark eyes, overhung by a pair of remarkably 
bushy black brows ; handsome eyes, but not pleasing 
in their expression,— eyes that could look straight 
enough and hard enough at you, but not with the 


120 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


straightforward, honest look of the man who is per- 
fectly willing for you to look through these “ windows 
of the soul” and search the innermost recesses of a 
heart guiltless of wrong. It was rather a hard, defiant 
glance, that courted inspection in the reckless spirit of 
bravado. As for his mouth, which is my favorite feat- 
ure and prime helper in character deciphering, nobody 
could say what kind of mouth he had ; for a heavy, 
dark moustache clothed his upper lip, and his chin was 
hidden by a little peaked goatee that was always kept 
trimmed in the latest style, and would have gone a 
long ways toward making its possessor a brigadier- 
general if he had been so unfortunate as to have lived 
in troubled times. 

So much for the insignificant item of the physical 
John Reynard; a handsome man, beyond dispute, but 
one turned from the contemplation of his good looks 
with a sense of dissatisfaction. The man’s face was 
repulsive in spite of his fine big eyes and dashing 
moustache and ready smile. Now for the self that he 
was so proud of having made. If the honesty of his 
parents had been as notorious a fact as their poverty 
I could state with strict veracity that he was “ born 
of poor but honest parents.” But I am utterly in the 
dark as to old Mr. and Mrs. Reynard’s moral antece- 
dents ; I only know that they were so poor, and their 
ability to do anything for their offspring was so limited, 
that at the early age of fourteen young John concluded 
he could make more by leaving the paternal roof-tree 
than by clinging to it. 

To save bootless discussion and the pain of ieave- 
taking, he kept his plans and resolutions to himself 
until they were quite ripe for execution, and then car- 
ried them into effect with such masterly adroitness 
and secrecy that he was at least fourteen miles from 
home, one bright, frosty morning when his poor old 
mother was standing innocently at the foot of the little 
ladder leading up into the loft where he and his 
younger brother slept, raising her querulous old voice 


A COUNTERFEIT GENTLEMAN, 


121 


to its most querulous pitch as she repeatedly called, 
“You John, — you John I” But “you John” was 
trudging merrily along the crisp, frost-bitten road to- 
ward the “city,” where he was to make his fortune 
very speedily and very easily in some way or other. 
The how was for further consideration. He had 
reached the city of New Orleans after divers adven- 
tures and experiences that it would fill a volume to 
detail ; had knocked about in search of employment 
until he had chanced into a drug-store, and was so 
fortunate as to obtain a situation in it as taker-down- 
of-shutters, sweeper-out-of-floors, and general runner of 
errands. It was while in this situation that he gave 
indication of one very necessary trait in the man who 
intends to make himself. That trait may be described 
as adhesiveness. He had found a situation. He would 
cling to that situation until something very positively 
better should offer. True, the shutters were certainly 
the very heaviest shutters that shop-boy ever stag- 
gered under. And he would pit the floor of his drug- 
store against the floor of any other store of any kind 
in the whole city of New Orleans for ability to accumu- 
late the greatest amount of dirt in the shortest given 
time ; still, it was a situation that assured him of food, 
lodging, and clothing. Young John had a lofty scorn 
of rolling stones. Young John resolved that he would 
not roll, and that he would gather moss. Strict atten- 
tion to business, unswerving punctuality, and general 
aptness eventually told in his favor, as it will in every- 
body else’s. He was gradually promoted into a drug- 
gist’s apprentice, during which period he began study- 
ing his profession under his former master. To a 
naturally very bright mind he added the most dogged 
determination to succeed. At the end of ten years he 
was permitted to write M.D. after his name, and was 
pronounced a “promising young physician, and arising 
man.” 

Arrived at this stage in his career, he found time to 
think of the old folks at home. His letter to them was 

11 * 


122 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


answered by his young brother. The old folks had 
gone the way of all flesh, and had long ago ceased 
from troubling. The rising young man sent for the 
forlorn boy, and took him under his august protection. 
Then he closed the door on his past life, and lost sight 
of John the shop-boy forever in admiring contempla- 
tion of John Keynard, M.D. He installed his brother 
in his old berth as a druggist’s apprentice. He deliv- 
ered him a little private oration on the occasion: 

“ I am giving you a start in the world, James, which 
is more than anybody ever did for me. I had my own 
row to hoe, sir, and a devilish long row it was. But 
here I am, my boy, in a fair way to make a fortune, 
and nobody to thank but myself I’m a self-made man, 
sir, and the secret of my success lies in a nut- shell. I 
wiped the word ‘ luck’ out of my dictionary, sir. There 
is no such thing as luck. A man’s luck lies in his 
brain and in his ten fingers, sir; step by step I’ve 
mounted the ladder, and although I’m far from the 
top round yet. I’ll be there before my hair is gray, sir; 
and the same road is open to you, sir. When your 
heart fails you, look at me, sir, and never say die.” 

Young James obeyed one portion of this injunction 
immediately, and looked at his self-made brother in 
genuine admiration; for the John who had run away 
from home ten years before, and Dr. Reynard, the 
young city doctor, had very little in common so far as 
personal appearance went. John had been a bushy- 
headed, sullen boy, who had run away from them all 
in a very bad humor and a pair of faded cottonade 
pants. Dr. Reynard, who did him the honor of ac- 
knowledging the blood-tie between them, was a hand- 
some young man, who wore black broadcloth every 
day, wore a shiny hat, and put on gloves when he 
went out on the street I John in gloves ! 

^ Moreover, association with men of education had 
given our self-made man a species of surface polish, a 
sort of social veneering that did him good service in 
the class in which he was destined to move as a pro- 


A COUNTERFEIT GENTLEMAN. 123 

fessional man. It is true, he would make that much- 
put-upon pronoun them do double duty ; and, on one 
notable occasion, when he rashly ventured upon a 
classical quotation, he got things into a terrible mud- 
dle by claiming a close family connection for Cicero 
and Socrates ; but he was too quick-witted thus to 
commit himself often, and the furtive smile his keen 
glance caught on the faces of those around him cured 
him forever of any puerile ambition to seem more 
erudite than he really was. 

He had been practicing his profession in the Cres- 
cent City for six years at the time he was called in to 
attend Mr. Barrow, and although he was acknowledged 
to be a good physician, he had never yet been able to 
take his place in the ranks of the old regular faculty. 
His business was ample for his support ; but it was 
not the kind of practice he desired to establish. He 
was often tempted to leave the field where there was 
so. many competitors and try a more obscure point. 
Then his old aversion to rolling stones would return, 
and he would preach patience to himself, — taking for 
his text his own favorite maxim, — step by step. Such 
as he was you have him. 

I find I have written quite a lengthy chapter by way 
of introducing Dr. John Reynard, when I might have 
disposed of him in one descriptive sentence, — he was 
a counterfeit gentleman. The glitter of the genuine 
gold was there. The stamp of the coin seemed true 
and fair. He would pass current with the unsuspect- 
ing million ; but if ever he comes to be weighed in the 
social scales by a “professional,’’ he will be found 
wanting. The ring of the true metal was not in him.. 


124 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


CHAPTER XYIIL 

A , CHAPTER OF COMMENTS. 

Otis Barrow was dead. 

The newspapers disposed of him in one short para- 
graph, which gave to the world the important item 
that he was born on such a date, and died on such 
another date, and — nothing more. 

The marble-cutter, as he chiseled away on the wordy 
epitaph, thought it a pity that the world should be de- 
prived of so much worth and goodness, while he re- 
joiced that the defunct possessor of the same was so 
“ rich a cove” as to demand such a costly specimen in 
the monumental line. 

A knot of men gathered in the office of the deceased 
Mr. Barrow. Commission merchants discussed his 
sudden death over their morning cigars, and had de- 
cided before the stumps of these same cigars were 
thrown away, that the ensuing season would see a 
great many applicants for the dead man’s shoes. 

The little widow, whose annihilation had been a 
matter of such vital import to Mrs. Barrow, clasped 
her hands and thanked God that although it had 
pleased Him to leave her desolate and alone in this 
wicked world, she had not one act of neglect toward 
her dear, dead Charles with which to reproach her- 
self. “ To think she was at the opera while he was 
actually dying!” 

The lucky mantuamaker, who received the newly- 
made widow’s orders for her mourning, gauged the 
lady’s grief by her purse, and piled on crape folds in 
the most grief-stricken quantity, thanking the good 
luck that had sent the “ poor, heart-broken thing” to 
her instead of to her rival over the way. 

Mrs. Lombard bent in silent sorrow over the letter 
containing the announcement, and dropped a sisterly 


TROUBLE AT TANGLEWOOD. 


125 


tear to the memory of the dead, as she sighed, “Poor 
Otis ! Agnes did not make him happy. I doubt if he 
had many regrets at leaving the world.” 

Two little, childish voices were raised in heart-broken 
wails that would not be hushed, for “ papa was dead, 
and there was nobody left to love now.” 

A plantation full of humble, affectionate-hearted 
slaves gathered in mournful clusters around the cabin- 
doors sorrowing for him who was gone, and trembling 
about their own dependent future, for “master was 
gone, and who was left to care for them now, in sick- 
ness and in health ? Master was gone, and they’d 
never get another like him.” 

For nine whole days the world’s tongue wagged 
over the dead man and his affairs, then a fresh wave 
from the sea of oblivion came rolling onward, washing 
them toward the shores of the eternal past, and the 
sun shone, and the birds caroled, and the flowers 
bloomed, and mortals danced and smiled as uncon- 
cernedly as if Otis Barrow, with his disappointed 
heart and unsatisfied cravings, had never been. 

Where now, ye living vanities of life. 

Ye ever-tempting, ever-cheating train, — 

Where are ye now, and what is your amount ? — 
Vexation, disappointment, and remorse." 


CHAPTER XIX. 

TROUBLE AT TANGLEWOOD. 

The summer succeeding Otis Barrow’s demise prom- 
ised to be an unusually warm and sickly one. Already 
the alarming rumor that cholera had made its appear- 
ance among the blacks was sending consternation to 
every heart. 

Agnes had fully intended showing her deceased hus- 


126 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


band the respect of staying quietly at home that whole 
summer; but, as the frightened remorse, which had 
been the only emotion she had felt from the beginning, 
began to wear away, the prospect of remaining in re- 
tirement on the plantation a whole season grew irk- 
some in the extreme. “ Of course,’’ she told herself, 
“ she had no desire whatever to enter into the gayeties 
of a watering-place ; but she would certainly be justi- 
fied in selecting some quiet, retired spot, and going 
there with her children.” 

She thought she would ask Becky’s advice about it ; 
then she thought she wouldn’t ; for Becky would cer- 
tainly be shocked at the idea of her going anywhere 
so soon after her husband’s death. Besides, was Re- 
becca her keeper, or the keeper of her conscience ? No, 
she was her own mistress, — her own mistress, and 
rich ! Mrs. Barrow was conscious of a guilty thrill of 
exultation as she murmured the words to herself. So, 
quietly, and without saying anything to her relatives 
over the lake, she began making the usual preparations 
for her summer flitting. 

The rumor of cholera among the blacks soon resolved 
itself into a dread certainty. It was within four plan- 
tations of Aland. It was on the next place. It was 
at Tanglewood. Dr. Lombard was kept busy day and 
night. Mrs. Barrow hastened the preparations for her 
departure. She was to leave within three days. She 
was about retiring to bed on the night of the day 
previous to the one appointed for her departure, when 
old Dora entered her room livid with fright. 

“Mistiss, Miss Becky’s down!” 

“ Who says so ?” cried Mrs. Barrow, starting from 
her chair in alarm. 

“ One o’ their boys is just come across to know ef you 
won’t come see Miss Becky. Says she mighty bad off.” 

Who sent him ?” asked Mrs. Barrow, turning pale. 

“Ole Patience,” replied Dora. 

“ Old fool I” exclaimed the lady. “ No, I cannot go. 
I am afraid. I owe it to my children to stay away.” 


TROUBLE AT TANGLE WOOD. 


12t 


“ Mistiss, ’spose she dies 

“ Can I help it if she does?” cried Agnes, turning 
upon her with flashing eyes. 

Old Dora turned to leave the room. 

“ Stop !” cried Mrs. Barrow. “ Go tell the boy I 
will come — ^but not now. Early in the morning.” 

‘‘ Cholera don’t wait on folks, mistiss.” 

“ Leave the room I” exclaimed Mrs. Barrow, in tones 
that enforced obedience. 

Her slave obeyed her. 

By daybreak the next morning a traveling-carriage 
whirled rapidly through the gates of Aland, and Agnes 
Barrow sat within, fleeing from the possibility of dan- 
ger, and turning a deaf ear to the calls of nature. 

In the mean time a heavy cloud was settling down 
over the happy little family at Tanglewood. 

When the loathsome disease first made its appear- 
ance among the negroes at Tanglewood, Dr. Lombard 
had striven, but in vain, to prevent all intercourse be- 
tween the house and quarters ; his wife had pleaded 
so sweetly and earnestly to be allowed to share his 
danger and fatigue that he had been forced to yield. 

“ You know, husband,” Becky had argued, “ that it 
so seldom attacks the better class, — fright and un- 
cleanliness seem almost essential to its appearance. I 
do not think I would be in any danger, and our poor, 
childlike slaves have learned to depend so upon me 
for help in any time of trouble, that if I stand aloof 
from them now it will have a most depressing effect.” 

“But our child, wife? I have to go among 
them, — it is my duty as a man and a physician ; but 
you ” 

“ And it is my duty as a mistress and your wife, 
dearest,” she interrupted. “If there is any danger, 
surely, my husband, it is but right that I should share 
it with you.” And a pair of arms were twined plead- 
ingly around Dr. Lombard’s neck, and he was coaxed 
into permitting his wife to share his labors. 

Her presence in the cabins had the most beneficial 


128 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


effect. She talked to the poor, frightened wretches 
cheerily and hopefully, exhorted them to cleanliness, 
and saved many a life by her own active exertions in 
behalf of the sufferers. 

But the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable. 
Her humane efforts in behalf of her father’s slaves 
were brought to an abrupt termination. She fell a 
victim to the loathsome disease herself. 

When Dr. Lombard stood beside her bed and ^azed 
in mortal agony upon the pinched features and sunken 
eyes of the wife he loved so dearly, he could have cried 
aloud against the cruel decree that had gone forth to 
deprive him of his beloved helpmate, his little child of 
so wise a mother, and the white-haired, stricken old 
master of Tanglewood, of his one solace on earth. 

“ Oh, Becky ! Becky I why did I listen to you when 
you begged to share my peril 

The husband’s heart-broken wail pierced the senses 
of the dying woman. She opened her languid lids and 
motioned him to kneel beside her. He obeyed, and 
knelt with his face close to hers, so he might catch 
every whispered wor(b 

“ Husband, I am not afraid to die. I did what I 
thought was my duty. Don’t grieve for me. Live for 
our daughter ; live for poor father ; live for me. Come 
to me, my husband ; follow me ; make a Christian of 
our little one ; cultivate her heart ; foster all womanly 
virtues in her. And now kiss me once more ; we’ve 
been very happy, husband, — so happy — so happy; and 
we will be again, — again, when we all four meet in 
heaven, — you and father, and my Bertha ; my pre- 
cious, precious Bertha! Teach her how to live, hus- 
band, so that she need not be afraid to die.” 

Her voice was low, but clear and silvery, and it had 
a far-away sound as if Rebecca Lombard had already 
reached the spirit-land where the angels were waiting 
to greet her, and had only paused upon the threshold 
long enough to utter her last, sweet good-by to the 
beloved mourners she was leaving behind her. 


TROUBLE AT TANGLEWOOD. 


129 


She died calmly and peacefully, with one hand 
clasped in her husband’s fond grasp, and the other 
resting on the white locks of her father, whose bowed 
head was buried in the bedclothes. 

A new vault was built in the family graveyard, in 
the garden at Tanglewood. Stern and white. Dr. Lom- 
bard stood near it giving the needful directions. 

, “ Make it large enough for two.” 

The workmen looked up in horrified uncertainty as 
to what he might mean. 

“ Make it large enough for two,” he repeated, calmly. 
‘‘I will claim a resting-place there before long.” 

Then he walked back into the house, and into the 
little parlor, where a cold, sheeted form lay awaiting 
interment. Dr. Lombard bent over it, and kissed the 
marble-white forehead, and the pale, unresponsive lips. 
Then he knelt and prayed for his child. Prayed long 
and fervently. Prayed that God would take care of 
the little one who was so soon to be fatherless as well 
as motherless. Prayed that kind Heaven would spare 
the feeble old man who would so soon be her only 
friend and stay until she had safely passed the years 
of helpless childhood. Committed her fervently, trust- 
ingly, into the hands of the orphan’s God. Then he 
arose from his knees and went in search of his father- 
in-law. He found the bereaved father sitting in his 
lonely bedroom with little Bertha sobbing in his arms 
while he tried to tell her of her dear mamma’s dying 
words, but could not for the trembling of his voice, and 
for the tears that would come. 

Dr. Lombard seated himself in a chair by the old 
man, and, lifting his little daughter on to his own lap, 
he took her childish face between both his hands, and 
turned the tearful eyes upward until he could gaze 
right into them. Then he spoke to the child solemnly 
and earnestly, — 

My little daughter, I want you to listen well to all 
I have to say to you, and I want you to try and re- 
member it, every word of it ; try and remember it 
12 


130 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


years hence when you may be entirely alone in the 
world, — when I may have gone to mamma in heaven, 
and grandpa may have left you too. I want you to 
try, my Bertha, and grow up to be as good a woman 
as your mother was. You will be poor, comparatively, 
but try and not let riches tempt you to do violence to 
your own heart. Be truthful and honest, little daugh- 
ter, before all things. Avoid a lie or the appearance 
of one as you would the pestilence. Be true to your 
natural instincts ; be true to 3^our mother’s early train- 
ing, and my girl’s future will be safe. God bless you 
and keep you, my precious one. Now, go; I must 
talk to your grandfather.” 

Wondering and frightened, the child slid from his 
arms and obeyed him. 

“Why do you talk so, Lombard?” asked Major 
Snowe as the little figure disappeared through the 
door. “You are gloomy, and you double her gloom 
by such discourse.’’ 

“ My own time is coming rapidly,” replied Dr. Lom- 
bard, gravely. “I feel it in my veins. I shall follow 
Bebecca in less than two days. My grief is all for 
you and the poor little one. You will be so lonely — 
so helpless — if Mrs. Barrow ” 

“ Hold !” exclaimed the old man, raising his right 
hand wrathfully ! — “ hold I I never wish to hear that 
name mentioned ; she fled from Bebecca’s death-bed ; 
she abandoned her husband in his last extremity, — 
don’t speak of her in connection with our precious 
Bertha.” 

Dr. Lombard was silent for a moment. “We will 
leave the future in the hands of God, trusting that he 
will raise up friends to our poor little one.” 

The physician’s gloomy presentiment proved but 
too fearfully correct. Bebecca Lombard had lain in 
her narrow home but two days when the husband she 
had loved so well went to share it with her ; and an 
old, white-haired man, feeble with years, and bowed 
with grief, and a heart-broken child of eleven years 


TROUBLE AT TANQLEWOOD. 


131 


were left alone in the desolate house to bear their bur- 
den of sorrow as best they might. 

And so the shadows fell upon the young life of Ber- 
tha Lombard, — blotting out the memory of all the 
past sunshine. Changing her from a happy, laughing, 
careless child into a quiet, gentle, low-voiced little 
thing, whose sweet brown eyes and tiny mouth had 
such a sadly plaintive look about them that one in- 
voluntarily longed to take her in one’s arms and soothe 
her with gentle words and loving caresses. It was 
a pitiful sight to see her and the bowed old master of 
the house as they sat alone through the long summer 
days, each striving so ineffectually to cheer the other 
and to repress their own anguished murmurings. 

The chess-table was laid aside now forever ; and the 
dust lay thick upon the mimic warriors who had seen 
such active service under the old major’s command. 
And the hours that were once devoted to the game 
were spent now in grave and somber converse between 
an old man and a sad-browed child. 

Over and over again would Bertha beg her grand- 
father to tell her exactly what mamma had said when 
she was dying. She knew it all by heart at last, and 
wrote it in a little, round, childish hand on the inside 
lid of her own little Bible. 

“ Grandpa,” she said, when asked why this was 
done, '‘you know my dear papa begged me to try 
and grow up to be just like mamma. I am afraid I 
might forget, after awhile, just how mamma used to 
talk. Whenever I feel I’m forgetting her I’ll read this 
in my Bible, and then it will seem as if mamma was 
talking to me herself.” 

Then she wrote under them the last injunctions of 
her father. 

“ I’m going to grow up by these, grandpa. It will 
be like obeying dear papa and mamma all my life.” 

So the long, sad summer wore away. The cup of 
sorrow had been presented to Bertha’s childish lips most 
unexpectedly. She had quaffed the bitter draught amid 


132 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


tears and wild outcries against the cruelty of Heaven. 
She believed that she had drained it to the dregs, and 
yet there was a reserve of trouble in store for her that 
might well have appalled her childish soul had it not 
been mercifully hidden from her by the impenetrable 
obscurity of the future. 


CHAPTER XX. 

TREATS OP NOBOBIES. 

Mrs. Barrow’s desire to compromise between her 
inclinations and the respect due her deceased husband 
— wait, let me reconstruct that sentence — Mrs. Bar- 
row’s desire to compromise between her inclinations 
and her fears of offending the proprieties, led her to 
select a quiet summer resort, where, to use her own 
words, “literally nobody ever went, where they actu- 
ally did not know the meaning of the word ‘dress,’ 
and where positively nothing whatever was done from 
morning to night to keep one from dying of stagna- 
tion.” 

And now, readers mine, I am going to treat you to 
a bit of novelty. 

You are all familiar, even unto satiety, with water- 
ing-places where somebody does go, where people do 
know the meaning of the word “dress,” and where 
something is done by way of murdering the precious 
hours which fly all too swiftly at the best. You are 
familiar with them, either in your own experience or 
through the wordy description of some gushing creat- 
ure in her first season, or the diametrically opposed 
description of some cynical old bachelor in his fortieth 
season ; but Mrs. Otis Barrow’s watering-place, where 
she went “solely for the benefit of her precious little 


TREATS OF NO BO DIES. 


133 


ones,” was, of course, totally unlike any other water- 
ing-place that ever had been resorted to by mortals 
afflicted with real or imaginary ailments. 

Nature had originally intended this spot for a de- 
lightful' retreat — a sure-enough retreat from the noise 
and the glare and the bustle of the work-a-day world. 
She had signified such to be her royal intention by 
locating the wells of healing waters, which were the 
sole and primal cause of its ever becoming a resort, in 
as lovely and modest a little nook as ever played hide- 
and-seek amid sheltering hills and fragrant forests of 
pine and magnolia. 

But the proprietors of this sylvan retreat had long 
since come to issue with nature, and had done all in 
their power to smooth away the barriers that made 
it so inaccessible to the fashionable world outside. 
Thanks to natural obstacles, however, it will never be 
brought within the list of decidedly fashionable water- 
ing-places, for one requires the assistance of a steam- 
boat, railroad car, and finally a primitive old stage- 
coach is called into requisition before the journey is 
fairly achieved. ‘‘Accommodation line” they call the 
lumbering old stages in their advertisement, — so called 
because they refuse every request made of them, go 
just when it best suits themselves, and totally ignore 
the fact that the human freight they convey from the 
railroad to the Wells is compounded of flesh and blood 
and bones, and hence is liable to breakage and bruisage. 

Mournful contemplation that, after one has accom- 
plished the feat of getting to the Wells, one should 
find nobody there! 

Mrs. Barrow suffered the ignominy of finding her- 
self the one somebody in a crowd composed of seventy 
or eighty nobodies. 

If our Lady Agnes had been given to that most 
curious of all studies, the study of her fellow-man, 
she would have discovered that there is a good deal of 
human nature in the nobody as well as in the some- 
body. But the study of character or of the human 
12 * 


134 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


face divine entered as seldom into her calculations as 
the mastering of Hebrew or Sanscrit. 

Some one has said, “ Tell me what you eat and I 
will tell you what you are.” Mrs. Barrow said, “Tell me 
what a woman wears, and I will tell you what she is.” 

Unfortunately the crowd in which she found herself 
at the Wells wore motley, and as she could not read 
motley, she pronounced the wearers thereof “No- 
bodies.” 

The fashions of more than a dozen revolving sea- 
sons were flaunted before her tortured eyes with the 
complacent serenity that can spring from blissful igno- 
rance alone. There was one individual whose appar- 
eling approximated so nearly to the fashion of the day, 
and, withal, gave such unmistakable signs of a full 
purse, that Mrs. Barrow allowed herself to be ap- 
proached by the wearer thereof; but she repented her 
momentary weakness immediately, when her teeth 
were put upon edge by being asked “what county in 
Louisiana she hailed from ?” 

“We have no counties in Louisiana; we have par- 
ishes,” replied Mrs. Somebody, freezingly. And Mrs. 
Nobody retired into her normal insignificance, de- 
pressed in spirits but improved in geography, let us 
hope. 

A sociably-inclined old lady, from Georgia, given to 
gossiping and snuff-dipping,* saw the stately widow 
sitting alone on the long gallery that skirted the build- 
ing from end to end ; and pitying her black robes and 
apparent sadness, she started toward her, snuff-box 
and brush in hand, on hospitable thoughts intent, but 
before she reached the spot Mrs. Barrow’s long robes 
had disappeared within her own door, and the baffled 
aspirant for the honor of her acquaintance found her- 
self in company of the vacated chair alone, and con- 
fronted by the inhospitably closed door. 


^ A (reorgian and North Mississippi custom exclusively, and not 
a “Southern custom.” 


TREATS OF NOBODIES. 


135 


“Humph!” exclaimed tlie old lady, dippinp: her 
brush reflectively into her snuff-box. “Stiff-necked — 
all them swamp-planters is — anyhow.” 

After these two rebuffs, no one made any attempts 
to raise Mrs. Barrow from her self-elected isolation. 

One advance in civilization had been made at the 
Wells, which proves how the spirit of humbuggery 
permeates the land throughout its length and its 
breadth. Croquet, that most delightfully stupid of 
all meaningless humbugs, had found its way to the 
Wells. 

A dozen or more intoxicated-looking wickets were 
stuck around, in an irrelevant sort of fashion, over a 
ridgy lawn. Half a dozen irrelevant-looking mortals 
stood in irrelevant positions, armed with mallets, with 
which, every once in awhile, they would hit an un- 
offending ball an irrelevant blow, sending it in any 
direction whatsoever it chose to take ; after which 
achievement the hero of the mallet would gaze around 
with looks of triumph, relevant of nothing to the un- 
initiated, until the grand final triumph of irrelevancy 
was accomplished by somebody’s ball choosing to roll 
lazily up against a painted stick. It was pointless — 
the game, not the stick — but it was fashionable ; hence 
worthy of the notice of Mrs. Barrow, who was gra- 
ciously pleased to let Ralph and Helen join in the 
game, reasoning with herself that they would be there 
too short a time to be seriously contaminated by the 
other participants in the game. 

She always took a book, however, and stationed 
herself under a tree that overlooked the lawn, from 
which point she could observe any undue familiarity 
that Helen might be subjected to, and was prepared to 
annihilate the offender upon the spot. 

For three weeks she had endured this durance vile, 
consoling herself for the misery of the present season 
by bright dreams of the coming one ; when one even- 
ing, as she was sitting in solitary grandeur on her 
bench under a tree, watching the game of croquet in 


136 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


reality, but pretending to read her book, a shadow fell 
upon the volume in her lap and remained there. She 
closed her book quickly, prepared to crush, with one 
withering glance, the presumptuous mortal who dared 
to pause in such close proximity to her sacred person. 

She raised her eyes full of a composition of lofty 
scorn and concentrated contempt, prepared on the spot ; 
but the expression of her eyes changed very suddenly, 
and I really believe her face betrayed much more glad- 
ness than she was quite aware of when she found her- 
self face to face with Dr. John Reynard. 

Dr. Reynard ! my kind, kind friend ! Surely my 
good angel sent you here.” 

Which, transcribed upon the mental tablets of mod- 
est Dr. Reynard, read: 

“ Dr. Reynard, my handsome, irresistible friend ! 
I’ve been more than half in love with you ever since 
the first moment I ever saw you, and your coming has 
made me perfectly happy.” 

Which, in reality, meant: Thank Heaven ! a human 
being has come at last ; somebody that one can talk to 
without being disgraced for life; some one who be- 
longs to the world and can tell one what is going on in 
it. Surel}’- his footsteps were directed hither in pity 
to my loneliness and isolation. So, now there were 
two people at the Wells. 

Lucky Wells ! 

So Mrs. Barrow was no longer lonely. She had the 
most devoted and attentive of cavaliers in the person 
of the handsome physician. 

He had come there with the settled purpose of try- 
ing to win Agnes Barrow for his wife. When John 
Reynard was in earnest about anything, he generally 
went about it in a very earnest fashion. He was very 
much in earnest this time, and he brought all his fasci- 
nations to bear upon the beautiful widow. The time 
was propitious, and he knew it. There was literally 
no competitor in the field, and he knew when once she 
found her way back into the beau-monde she would 


TREATS OF NOBODIES. 


13Y 


have such a number to select from that his chance of 
success would be sadly diminished. He must secure 
her before they parted at the Wells. It was too good 
a thing to be left to chance. 

There was no man in the world who understood the 
female sex better than did this crafty John Reynard. 
He was all things unto all women. Tyrannical and 
harsh to the gentle and yielding ; courteous and defer- 
ential to haughty Agnes Barrow. It was not long 
before Mrs. Barrow found herself mentally contrasting 
his gentlemanly polish with the honest brusquerie of 
poor dead Otis, to the disparagement of the latter. 

If Mr. Barrow had only had half of Dr. Reynard’s 
cultivation, how much more agreeable we might have 
gotten on I she soliloquized. 

So, now you are prepared, reader, for the announce- 
ment that before Mrs. Barrow turned her back upon 
the Wells that season, hoping “she might never lay 
eyes on them again,” John Reynard had asked her to 
be his wife, with many prettily-worded apologies for 
telling so soon the love that would not remain un- 
spoken another hour. 

And Mrs. Barrow had said “Yes,” and had even 
promised him it should be before very many months 
more passed. 

“Did she love him ?” My dear little girl, what an 
absurd question ! Go play with your dolls. 

“Did he love her?” You nonsensical boy! Where 
were you born, and what century do you belong to ? 
You don’t deserve the glorious destiny of having been 
born in the nineteenth century; nor are you entitled to 
the inestimable privilege of reading a nineteenth cen- 
tury novel. Go read Don Quixote. 


138 


DEAD 3IEN^S SHOES. 


^ CHAPTER XXL 

UNDER THE YOKE. 

In due course of time Mrs. Barrow became Mrs. Dr. 
Reynard. 

Surprise was the predominant feeling excited in 
their small world. For the world had thought that so 
wealthy and attractive a woman as Agnes Barrow 
might aspire to something more than a physician 
whose name and fortune were not yet very prominent. 
But there was more than surprise in two little childish 
hearts that we wot of. There was wrath, fierce but 
impotent; there was indignant sorrow that any one 
else should come to fill the vacant place of him who 
had been dearest of all to them. There was shed tor- 
rents of rebellious tears when they were bidden to 
call this usurper by the name that should have been 
sacred to memory forever. A poor little boy fist was 
clinched in childish rage as Ralph vowed he ‘‘would 
never, never call him father ! — no, not if they killed 
him for it.” And then Helen, who thought Ralphy’s 
ire very terrible indeed, and knew not but that any 
exhibition of it might bring down upon him some con- 
dign punishment, dried her own tears and began plead- 
ing, in company with old Dora, that he would try and 
treat their new father with respect. 

Mrs. Barrow had been married in New Orleans, and 
had forwarded the intelligence of that event by letter 
to her children. 

The bridal-party expected to follow the letter imme- 
diately, and old Dora, though her own faithful heart 
was full of grief and bitterness, was striving conscien- 
tiously to drill her two little charges into some sem- 


UNDER THE YOKE. 


139 


blance of respect and acquiescence in the new order of 
things. 

To bring Helen to terms had been comparatively 
easy work. She had used a few cabalistic words: 
“My little missy, yo’ poor dear pa, what is a saint 
in heaven now, would want you to treat yo’ new pa 
wid respec’.” 

And poor little Helen, without entering into any 
metaphysical speculation as to what her sainted father’s 
views in regard to his successor might possibly be, 
accepted Aunt Dora’s daring exposition of them, and 
promised “ to be good for dear papa’s sake.” 

But Ralph indignantly scouted the idea that his 
father would approve of any such treachery to his 
memory, as would necessarily be implied by allegiance 
to the usurper, and stoutly refused to make any terms. 

“I’d kill him if I could,” was the boy’s final wrath- 
ful exclamation in answer to old Dora’s oft-repeated 
objurgation “to be good.” 

“ But, Ralphy, we have to call him something,” said 
Helen, piteously. “What are you going to call him, 
brother ?” 

“ I’m going to call him ‘ him and you and he and 
him,’” said the young rebel. 

“ And git your ears boxed for your pains,” said old 
Dora, exasperated out of all show of patience. 

“ Let him try it,” replied the boy, purple with rage. 

Thus matters stood when Dr. Reynard and his bride 
arrived at Aland. 

They were met by a hundred obsequious slaves, 
who acted, perforce, on the principle “le roi est mort — 
vive le roi !” 

As the self-made man stepped from the luxurious 
carriage that Otis Barrow had provided for the penni- 
less Agnes Snowe, and gazed round upon the throng 
of Otis Barrow’s slaves who had come to greet him as 
their master with humble bows and lowly courtesies ; 
as his quick eye glanced as far as it could reach over 
the noble domain into mastership of which he had en- 


140 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


tered, his soul swelled within him, and he thought, 
with exultation, that the bread he had cast upon the 
waters when Otis Barrow had died had returned to 
him in the shape of a goodly loaf large and fair to 
look upon. 

Step by step, John Reynard, he murmured in- 
wardly, as he aided his wife to alight with all the 
suavity of a courtly gentleman. Step by step, my 
boy ; round by round ; and surely you have reached 
the topmost round at last. 

Old Dora stood awaiting them in the front door, 
holding Helen’s little trembling hand in her great 
brown one. 

Mrs. Reynard stooped and pressed a frozen kiss on 
the child’s quivering lips. “ Helen, there is your new 
papa. You are to call him ‘father,’ and be good and 
obedient to him.” This in a voice as stern and cold 
as if poor little Helen had already been caught in half 
a dozen treasonable attempts to subvert the Reynard 
authority, instead of standing there tremblingly and 
quiveriugly, only asking for somebody to be “good” to 
her. 

But Mrs. Reynard still clung to her old-time belief 
that “Helen was perfectly incorrigible,” and treated 
her with the rigidity that orthodoxy recommends for 
such ne’er-do-weels. 

Helen stepped forward timidly and raised a rosebud 
mouth to be kissed. Then John Reynard did the 
heartiest thing anybody had ever seen him do. He 
took the little trembling creature into his arms, and, 
looking kindly into her great, wondering gray eyes, he 
kissed her, and told her he felt sure he and she were 
going to be very good friends; at any rate, if they 
were not, the fault should not be his. 

“ Where is Ralph ?” asked Mrs. Reynard of old 
Dora. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am,” began the old woman, ner- 
vously. “I begged him ” 

“ Never mind, my dear,” said the physician, blandly. 


UNDER THE YOKE. 


141 


addressing his wife ; “ no coercion, I desire. Let the 
boy come to me when he chooses ; and we will wait, if 
you please, until he does choose.’’ 

So Dr. and Mrs. Reynard proceeded to the library, 
where a bright wood fire sparkled and crackled a 
cheery welcome to them, while Helen hastened away 
to find Ralphy, and tell him ‘‘ how nice papa Reynard 
was.” 

She had to search for him a long time. She found 
him at last curled up in the bottom of the sail-boat in 
the boat-house. He was very cold and very miserable, 
and very sullen and very determined. 

“ Oh, Ralphy I” cried Helen, scrambling into the 
boat, and seating herself by him. “ He isn’t a bit 
awful. He took me and kissed me, and said he was 
going to be good to me.” 

“And you kissed him ?” roared Ralph, in a voice of 
mingled scorn and rage. 

“ Ye-es,” said poor little Helen, timidly acknowledg- 
ing her guilt. 

“ You traitor !” cried her brother, looking down in 
utter scorn upon her feminine weakness from the alti- 
tude of his own wrathful rectitude. 

“*Oh, Ralphy, Ralphy, don’t talk to me that way I 
You know I did love dear, dear papa. You know you 
didn’t love him a bit better than I did ; but papa’s 
dead, and Aunt Dora says ” 

“ Don’t tell me what Aunt Dora says. You never 
loved father, or you wouldn’t be so ready to love this 
man, that’s come and taken his place.” 

“ Ralphy, we have to live with this new father all 
our lives. Would our own dear papa be any happier 
in heaven for knowing that we were perfectly miserable 
on earth ? Oh, Ralphy dear I come, go to the house 
with me, and make friends with him.” 

“ I won’t.” 

“Ralph,” said Helen, gravely, ‘'do you know I’m 
afraid that he must think you a very bad boy already ?” 

13 


142 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


'‘What right has he to think anything about me?” 
said Ralph, excitedly, facing around upon his sister 
with flashing eyes. 

"I don’t know, brother; but when mamma asked 
where you were, and was going to send for you, he 
told her ‘ no,’ — to let you alone — he would wait until 
you came of your accord — he didn’t want any cursing. 
So, you see, brother ” 

“ Cursing !” interrupted Ralph, incredulously. 

What right had he to say I cursed ?” 

Then he bounded from his seat and tore past Helen, 
leaving her in trembling uncertainty as to whether 
he meditated suicide or manslaughter. One or both 
seemed imminent. 

As soon as her flrst terror was over, she ran after 
him, determined to stand by Ralphy to the death. 

Half blinded with passion, the storm-tossed boy 
strode into the room where his hated stepfather was 
sitting cosily, chatting with his wife. 

Without other greeting to either of them, Ralph 
confronted his stepfather with, — 

“Whoever told you that I cursed?” 

Dr. Reynard glanced in surprise at Mrs. Reynard, 
and Mrs. Reynard cast a glance of equal bewilderment 
on the excited boy who stood before them. 

“ I say — I want to know whoever told you that I 
cursed ?” 

Dr. Reynard’s eye was filled with a baleful light as 
he fixed Ralph with a steady glance, but his voice be- 
trayed no excitement as he inquired, in a slow, quiet 
voice, — 

“ Mrs. Reynard, my dear, has there ever been any 
insanity in your family ?” 

Mrs. Reynard, not presuming this to be a serious 
question, vouchsafed it no answer. Instead, she turned 
to her son, — 

“ Ralph, wha,t do you mean ? Explain yourself, sir, 
or I shall have you locked up until you do.” 

“ He said he didn’t want any of my cursin’. I know 


UNDER THE YOKE. 


143 


he said it, for Helen says so, and I never heard Helen 
tell a lie in my life.” 

By this time Helen herself had appeared upon the 
scene of action, frightened and tearful. 

“Helen,” began Mrs. Reynard, magisterially, “did 
you tell your brother that Dr. Reynard said he did not 
want any of his cursing?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said the child, promptly, looking her 
straight in the face. 

“Do you know that you told him a terrible false- 
hood?” said the mother, in her most judicial voice. 

“Oh, no, mamma,” said Helen, quickly. “I never 
told a story in my life! Don’t you remember,” she 
went on eagerly, “ when you wanted to send for 
brother. Doc — pa — father [the word came halting] 
said, ‘No cursin’, — let the boy come to me when he 
wants to’ ?” 

The light of superior wisdom broke over Dr. Rey- 
nard’s stormy face. 

“Ah, I see, my dear, a mistake, — really a most 
ludicrous one, but a perfectly natural one. My little 
daughter heard me make use of the word ‘coercion,’ 
from which has arisen this most amusing misunder- 
standing.” 

Then, with a perfect sarcasm of suavity, he turned 
to Ralph, and gave him the orthography, meaning, 
derivation, and Heaven knows what not of the terrible 
word which had so excited the boy’s wrath. 

Ralph looked and felt most ludicrously cheap. 

Helen was radiant at the re-establishment of her 
character for veracity. 

Ralph turned and left the room sullenly. The mel- 
lifluous tones and studied politeness of his new father 
irritated him beyond measure. It, in a manner, cut 
the ground from under his feet. 

His little soul had been full of heroic determination _ 
to be faithful to his father’s memory. He had formed 
a thousand and one plans by which he would show 
this usurper that he looked upon him as such. He 


144 


DEAD 3IEN^S SHOES 


rather enjoyed the idea that divers and fearful punish- 
ments would be inflicted upon him for the same, look- 
ing upon it as a sort of martyrdom of the faithful. 
But this extremely polite — this unctuous — mortal 
would give him nothing to hang a quarrel on. He 
merely laughed his childish ebullitions to scorn, and 
treated him with the lofty indulgence one accords a 
baby, a lunatic, or other irresponsible being. 

For a month or two things were not as placid as 
was desirable at Aland. 

Poor little Ralph raged and sulked alternately, but 
had at last sullenly to acknowledge that there was a 
will at Aland stronger than his own, and a determina- 
tion to be master which his child-will, fierce as it was, 
could not circumvent. 

Helen accepted the situation from the first, and be- 
fore a week was out had “ father” as glibly as if she 
had said it to Dr. John Reynard all her little life. 

But the most decided fruit born of those first two 
months of Mrs. Reynard’s existence was the knowl- 
edge, on that lady’s part, that Agnes Snowe had found 
her master. 

Yes, she had come under the yoke, — unintentionally, 
unexpectedly, undesiringly, — nevertheless, under it she 
was. True, her courteous spouse had padded and 
cushioned the marital yoke with soft words and silken 
blandishments, so that it should not gall the stately 
neck so unused to its pressure ; but she felt it all the 
same whenever she tried on any of the little imperious 
ways with which she used to bring poor Otis Barrow 
to terms. 

She was “my dear,” and “Agnes, my love,” and 
“my charming wife,” and a thousand other pretty 
things to Dr. John Reynard; and never had woman 
more deference shown her in public, or more delicate 
little attentions showered upon her in public and in 
private; but, in spite of it all, — in spite of pretty 
names and tender deference, — Mrs. Reynard always 
did as Dr. Reynard desired. Dr. Reynard seldom, if 


THE LAST DROP IN BERTHA'S CUP. 145 


ever, did as Mrs. Reynard desired, and no one recog- 
nized the fixedness of this fact sooner than did the 
haughty, selfish, imperious, unreasonable Agnes Bar- 
row, who had made the grave a refuge of peace and 
haven of rest to the honest, generous, kind-hearted 
man who had rescued her from.a life of abject poverty. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE LAST DROP IN BERTHA LOMBARD’S CUP. 

Five times had the snow-drops and the violets that 
orphaned Bertha had planted around the single grave 
that held her all blossomed and faded, shedding their 
beauty and their fragrance like a benediction upon the 
heads of the tranquil dead beneath them. Five times 
the starry jasmine, that the same loving little hands 
had taught to clamber over the cold marble in rich 
festoons, had scattered its milky petals in a soft snow- 
storm over the vault that covered her father and her 
mother, when the last drop of sorrow was poured into 
Bertha’s already brimming cup, and her childish lips 
were forced to drink to the bitter dregs. 

The girl’s early sorrows, and her subsequent life of 
seclusion and loneliness, had told upon her sadly, 
making her far graver and quieter than was befitting 
her tender years. There was a tinge of melancholy 
in her manners, and a softened, subdued look about her 
sweet mouth and dovelike eyes, that was most pitiful 
to behold in so young a creature. She had never had 
a companion of her own age. 

True, the old affection between herself and her more 
fortunate cousins had continued unabated, but then it 
had been liable to' so many interruptions. 

13 * 


146 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


The constant summer migrations of the Aland peo- 
ple made long seasons of dreary loneliness for poor 
little Bertha, during which her child’s soul longed for 
some more congenial life, some more stirring existence 
than her sleepy one, with an infinite yearning. 

Her days were spent in loving and untiring attend- 
ance upon her feeble old grandfather, who had been 
slowly but steadily failing ever since the day on which 
it had pleased inscrutable Providence to deprive him, 
and his still more helpless little granddaughter, of son 
and daughter, father and mother, at one cruel blow. 

He would sit for hours in one sunny spot on the 
veranda if it were summer, or in the same corner of 
the fireplace, by the sitting-room fire, if it were winter, 
and with Bertha on a low seat at his feet, where he 
could rest his trembling, withered old hand upon her 
bright sunny brown hair, would maunder on, half 
childishly, half sadly, about the old times when Becky 
and Julia and Agnes were all at home, and were 
hardly bigger or older than Bertha’s self. 

And Bertha never tired of asking questions about 
those old times. She loved to hear stories of her 
mother’s girlhood. She loved to ask questions about 
the aunt who was a great lady living in France, whom 
she had never seen, but who sometimes wrote to her 
Aunt Reynard, and would occasionally ask “ how 
poor Beck’s child came on.” Becky’s little daughter 
used to try to imagine them all back in the old house. 
She tried to people Tanglewood with its old-time oc- 
cupants ; but the sweeping velvets and silk trains of 
her Aunt Reynard as she knew her, seemed laughably 
out of place on the old faded carpet of their sitting- 
room, and for the life of her she could not imagine 
Aunt Yerzenay sleeping comfortably in the little slim- 
posted bedstead up-stairs in the room grandpa said used 
to be hers. 

So Bertha gave up her fancy pictures and came back 
to the present, when her grandfather would say, in his 


THE LAST DROP IN BERTHA'S CUP. 14 Y 


slow, monotonous voice, ‘‘But they are all gone now, 
— all gone, — every one of them.” 

“ Oh ! no, grauclpa,” Bertha would remonstrate, “not 
gone. Dear mamma is the only one gone. Aunt Yer- 
zenay and Aunt Reynard are not gone.” 

“ They are gone, child, — gone. Deader than Becky, — 
far deader, far deader ; for Becky’s body alone is dead. 
But they — they are dead in heart, dead in soul, dead 
in all goodness, dead to all humanity.” 

Then Bertha, failing to understand him, wisely for- 
bore attempting to answer him. 

There was one bright element, however, in Bertha’s 
somber existence, and that one element was Ralph. 
During the first year of Dr. Reynard’s reign at Aland, 
Ralph had spent about two-thirds of his time at Tangle- 
wood. His stepfather was hateful to him, his home 
distasteful, so almost every day would see his tiny 
skiff skimming swiftly over the rippling waters of the 
lake, and himself coming to Bertha with a fresh budget 
of grievances, which he expected her to listen to sym- 
pathetically, and help him pronounce sentence of ex- 
communication on the author of them all. The sym- 
pathy was readily accorded, and so fully, so sweetly, so 
generously, that Ralph would throw his arms around 
his fragile girl cousin and declare boisterously that he 
loved her better than he did anything in the wide 
world. But when he wanted her to join in his whole- 
sale abuse of his stepfather, and eagerly demanded 
her indorsement of his dictum that there never was 
a more detestable tyrant raised into authority over 
suffering boy-martyr, he found that Bertha was in- 
clined to be conservative, and instead of passing whole- 
sale judgment on Dr. Reynard, would essay to soothe 
Ralph’s wounds with wholesome advice, gently enough 
spoken ’tis true, and wise old saws about the duty of 
children, which came with quaint gravity from her 
sweet little child-mouth. 

But Ralph would stop her with, “ Oh, I say now, 
Berth, you’re not going to preach too, are yon ? Leave 


148 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


that to Aunt Dora. She’s taken orders some time ago, 
writes D.D. after her name, and all that sort of thing.” 

“D.D. stands for Darky Dora as well as Doctor of 
Divinity,” Bertha would reply, right merrily, “ so Aunt 
Dora is entitled to it, sir.” 

“Now then, you are talking like the dear little girl 
that you are, and not like a parson,” replied Ralph, 
the clouds disappearing from his face as the threatened 
sermon ended in a quibble. 

All the few pleasures of Bertha’s life came with her 
cousin’s coming. Sometimes Helen was with him ; 
often er he came alone. Dr. Reynard had taken a 
strange fancy to make Helen love him better than she 
did anything on earth, and she was in a fair way to do 
so. To which end he kept her constantly with him, 
teaching her how to ride, taking her fishing with him, 
taking her long walks, during which he gave him- 
self up unreservedly to amusing her, stocking a flower- 
garden for her, bringing her pets and training them 
for her, until he had won for himself the very first place 
in the fresh young heart. Ralph resented this bitterly, 
and it was one of the grievances he most often and 
most loudly poured into Bertha’s sympathizing ears. 

“ He’s taken her away from me. Berth. I loved her 
so dearly, and she used to love me better than she did 
anybody in the world. But now she sides with him 
against me. She’s gone over to him, and turned 
against me. They’re all against me over home, cousin. 
Mother and Dr. Reynard, and Helen, and Aunt Dora, 
and even — why, Bertha! my very dog, my pretty 
Blanche, that was the last -thing father ever gave me, 
follows him in preference to me I Think of that 1” And 
Ralph paused, as if this last instance of desertion must 
excite even the placid Bertha. 

“ Maybe he feeds him better than you do,” answered 
Bertha, prosaically. 

“ Him 1 what makes you call Blanche ‘ him’ ? ” said 
Ralph, with boyish petulance. “ But he don’t. I feed 


THE LAST DROP IN BERTHA^ S CUP. I49 


her until she can’t eat another mouthful. No, he’s a 
witch.” 

‘‘ Wizard, Ralphy,” suggested Bertha, who knew 
more about books than she did about dogs. 

“ Well, witch or wizard,” said the inconsistent boy, 
impatiently, — “ sex don’t make any difference.” 

“ Oh, I thought it did,” replied Bertha, demurely ; 
“you got so impatient over my calling Blanche ‘him.’ 
But, cousin,” she would resume, more gravely, “you 
ought not to talk as if Helen had ceased to love you 
because she has learned to love her stepfather. I am 
sure he takes enough pains, and does everything he can 
to make her love him, — what a strange girl she would 
be if she did not !” 

“ Well, yes, I suppose she would ; but I can’t love 
him. I know that. I suppose it’s because she’s a girl,” 
concluded this man in embryo, who could only account 
for his sister’s shortcomings on the score that she was 
a woman in embryo. 

Bertha generally brought these unwholesome dis- 
cussions to an abrupt termination by proposing a 
ramble after wild grapes, muscadines, or pecans ; or 
else her hen’s-nest wanted fixing, or she required 
Ralph’s superior powers as amateur detective to dis- 
cover the retreat of some secretive guinea, or else her 
flowers were getting terribly weedy, or something had 
to be done, which led the busy little woman and the 
discontented boy away from the discussion of things 
they could not alter to the remedying of small troubles, 
that gave them at once healthful occupation and serene 
enjoyment. 

But, after Dr. Reynard had been master at Aland 
for one little year, he gave Mrs. Reynard a piece of 
advice, which, like all the advice he was kind enough 
to give that lady, was acted upon promptly. 

Dr. Reynard loftily pronounced the whole educa- 
tional system of the United States a grand piece of 
humbuggery: “Would do well enough for those who 
were too poor to avail themselves of better ; but as 


150 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Mr. Barrow had left a princely fortune to his children, 
it was but right that they should be educated as be- 
came the possessors of such vast estates.” 

Mrs. Reynard approved, as Mrs. Reynard approved 
of everything Dr. Reynard said or did. 

So to Europe they were taken : Helen to be left in 
charge of her aunt, Madame Yerzenay; Ralph to be 
placed at a highly recommended institution of learning 
near Paris. 

Thus had the one bright element been taken out of 
Bertha Lombard’s life. Ralph, the bright boy who 
declared that he loved her better than he did anything 
in the world, was gone. Ralph, whom she loved with 
a love intensified by her own loneliness, and the 
scarcity of objects upon which to lavish the wealth of 
her loving soul, was gone for an indefinite number of 
years. True, they corresponded furiously ; and writing 
to Ralph, and reading his affectionate letters in return, 
was the one pleasure of Bertha’s life. 

Gradually, however, Bertha got used to living on 
without ever seeing her handsome young cousin, and 
had settled back into the old monotony of her life, — a 
life which consisted of one unchanging round of duties, 
— light ones, it is true, but so grave, and so unvary- 
ing, that Bertha bade fair to be an old woman before 
her time. 

It was a bright October, — the October of the year 
18 — . The atmosphere was clearer than is often seen 
in this damp climate of ours, and the intense blue of 
th e sky was faithfully mirrored in the glassy bosom of 
the little lake. The golden-rod waved its yellow 
plumes in autumnal beauty, while the flaming trumpet- 
flower flaunted in insolent triumph above myriads of 
little modest, purple stars that sought to .fling their 
mite of beauty before the reluctant feet of departing 
summer. The crows were cawing loudly in the tops 
of the tall pecans, as they rejoiced over their nutty 
harvest. The trees were preparing to put on their 
autumn robes of many colors. The cotton crops were 


THE LAST DROP IN BERTHA^ S CUP. 151 


hanging in fleecy maturity waiting to be gathered, — 
everything betokened that the year’^s work was almost 
done, and man was about to reap the harvest of his 
good or ill deeds for that season. 

In this season of ripened fruits, the reaper Death 
saw fit to gather into his harvest the full and ripened 
sheaf of the old master of Tanglewood. He had been 
failing so gradually that the inexperienced eyes of his 
granddaughter noted no change in him when he sent 
for her one morning of this bright October and told 
her he was too ill to rise. In extreme alarm Bertha 
asked him what she must do. 

“ Send over for Dr. Reynard and his wife ; I must 
see them.” 

The Reynards had but a few days before returned 
from their summer trip, and although Mrs. Reynard, 
at stated and distant periods, went regularly through 
the formula of paying a meaningless visit to her old 
father and desolate little niece, there had been no inti- 
macy whatever existing between the two households. 

A message to the effect that “ old master was 
dying,” of course brought Dr. Reynard and Mrs. 
Reynard promptly to the spot. What little heart 
those two worldlings possessed between them, must 
certainly have been touched when they entered the 
bedroom where the sick man lay. His heavy and 
labored breathing could be heard before the door was 
opened. A group of half-frightened and half-curious 
negroes was clustered around the entrance to the 
room. Within were two negro women nurses, a heart- 
broken child, with her head buried in the bedclothes, 
and a white-haired old man, slowly and painfully 
breathing his life away. Mrs. Reynard’s silken train 
rustled disagreeably as she glided over the bare floor 
to her father’s bedside. The crinckling silk attracted 
his attention ; he opened his almost sightless eyes and 
fixed them upon the handsome face of his daughter as 
she bent over him. 

‘'Father, can I do anything for you?” 


152 


DEAD 3IEN’S SHOES. 


It was an effort for him to answer. The words 
came far apart and in a labored voice. 

“ For me, nothing. Becky’s child ; she has no 
home ; she is no beggar; see.” And he laid his hand 
upon a package of papers lying on the bed beside him. 
“ This will pay — you — for taking care — of her.” 

“Oh, father!” there was a world of reproach in 
Mrs. Reynard’s voice. 

The old man seemed to gather himself together for 
one final struggle. 

“ I ask no favor at your hands, Agnes Snowe, — un- 
natural daughter 1 false wife I cruel woman I” 

For a second time in her life Agnes Reynard shiv- 
ered under death-bed reproaches. 

“Father, forgive me!” And for a second time she 
knelt at the eleventh hour to ask pardon for the neglect 
of a lifetime. But either outraged parental affection 
was more implacable than the husband’s wounded 
feelings, or else the feeble old man had exhausted the 
powers of speech in those last reproachful utterances; 
for he would not speak again. 

“Unnatural daughter! false wife! cruel woman!” 
were the last words he ever spoke, and they came 
back to Agnes Reynard with a fearful distinctness 
night after night when she strove in vain to forget 
them and to lose sight of that lonely old man, dying 
without one creature of his own blood near him save 
a little frightened child, who was sobbing her childish 
soul away in terrified helplessness. 

sK ^ 

So Bertha went to live at Aland when she was a 
sad-browed child of fourteen years only. What can- 
not one get used to in this world ? what burden is too 
great for poor humanity to bear ? what sorrow too 
terrible to be outlived ? 

In our happy ignorance we look forward and cry in 
affright that “ we cannot, cannot stand it, we will die 
under it, our hearts will break.” But that very ca- 


TEE LAST DROP IN BERTRAMS CUP. I53 


lamity comes upon us, and lo I we can and do stand 
it, we do not die under it, and our hearts break not. 

Our fortunes take wings unto themselves and iy. 
We make our moan ; we declare we can never, never 
recover from the blow ; but then we go on, and we eat 
and we drink and we make merry and fall to dreaming 
of other possible fortunes. 

Our friend, the friend whom we believed in with a 
faith divine, plays us false. Our heart-pulse quivers 
with the shock ; we call aloud on Heaven to take us 
from a world where all is hollow, hollow, hollow; but 
a week, a month, a year passes, and we still find this 
hollow world a habitable place, and we fasten the torn 
tendrils of our faith upon a new support, and go on 
believing and trusting, as in the days of yore. 

The mother that bore us is called hence. The grave 
closes over our most precious earthly possession. In 
the wildness of our grief we declare that we too would 
die ; that life has no charm for us. But Time comes 
with healing on his wings, and our wild grief changes 
to a gentle sorrow, then softly merges into tender re- 
gret, and still we live. For nothing kills. The human 
heart is elastic, or faithless, or strong to bear, or weak 
to retain, which you will. 

Our love deceives us : we eat, drink, and sleep. 
Death robs us of treasure after treasure : we eat, drink 
and sleep. The foul breath of slander kills our fair 
fame: we eat, drink, and sleep. Bereft of every joy, 
alone, poverty-stricken, sorrow-laden: we eat, drink, 
and sleep. Oh, precious anatomy I whose welfare 
soars so high above all considerations of sorrow or of 
joy, of pain or of passion, we bow to thy sublimity 
and to the three only great human needs — Eating, 
Drinking, Sleeping! 

Poor little Bertha didn’t think quite all that, but 
she had a vague sort of a notion that if any one had 
told her six years before that her father and her mother 
would both die in one week, and that a few years 
after that her grandfather would follow them, and that 
14 


154 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


the old house at Tanglewood would be shut up and 
she be living at Aland, with no one for company but 
her cold Aunt Agnes and a perfectly strange gentle- 
man, with the great ocean dividing her and her two 
cousins, she would have cried aloud in childish agony, 
that she could not, could not live through it, — that it 
would kill her, she knew it would. Yet, while these 
thoughts were surging through her brain, she was sit- 
ting quietly at the dinner-table between Dr. Reynard 
and his wife, not eating with a very hearty appetite it 
is true, nevertheless eating and drinking as if all that 
she loved on earth were not lying under the sod just 
across that little strip of water. 

Bertha asked herself if she were not the most 
heartless of all human beings, else why had she not 
died. 

Poor child, the burden of thinking had come upon 
her when she should only have been enjoying. She 
had begun to puzzle over her life’s problem when she 
should have been dressing her dolls. 

Alas I poor little shorn lamb, pray that God temper 
the wind to thy sore need. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN ! 

Nature, in a merry mood one day, made a little 
man-mould ; quite a little one. It was not more than 
five feet five inches in length. The lower extremities 
were modeled after those “ twin invaders of domestic 
peace” of which Mr. Simon Tappertit was so inordi- 
nately vain. They were perfect marvels of elegance 
in miniature. Surmounting these was a dapper little 
body that was admirably well fitted for a tailor’s 


SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN! 


155 


dummy, which, in its turn, was surmounted by a short, 
thick neck, supporting a head as round as an apple 
and equally as devoid of all individuality. Into this 
mould Nature poured a composite mass of brass and 
suavity, and cunning and candor, and laziness and 
energy, and turned out — Mr. James Reynard. 

Mr. James Reynard, or Jim Reynard, as his famil- 
iars preferred designating him, had improved on Na- 
ture to the extent of a very fierce-looking brown 
moustache, — the only awe-inspiring thing about him. 
He had an inveterate habit of twisting this hirsute 
adornment through his pudgy little fingers, striving 
thereby to give it a certain peculiar curve, which, in 
his own estimation, was all that was wanting to make 
the likeness between Mr. James Reynard and Victor 
Emmanuel strikingly apparent to the most careless 
observer. 

Mr. James Reynard, you will remember, was the 
youth whom Dr. John Reynard was kind enough to 
recollect after he had made himself. He had sent 
for this young brother and given him a start in the 
world, as you will also remember. But the talent for 
making one’s self did not seem to run in the family to 
any great extent. For although young James had 
availed himself of the generous start his brother had 
given him to the extent of keeping on in the world at 
an even jog-trot, he gave no promise of adding any 
lustre to the name of Reynard, nor of presenting for 
the world’s admiration another specimen of that most 
insufferable of all bores, “a self-made man, sir.” 

I am afraid all the brilliant examples and sound 
precepts of a hundred brother Johns could never have 
made anything more of young James than what his 
most ardent young lady admirers pronounced him, — 
“ Such a nice young man !” 

Yes, he was a nice young man, with nice little 
ways. And he wore nice shiny boots, and nice natty 
hats, and carried nice little canes, and said such 
pretty, nice things to nice, pretty girls. And altogether 


156 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


was so nice, that that arch-schemer, brother John, 
began to think that so much niceness might be made 
available for certain purposes of his own, and hence 
did young James the additional honor of placing him 
among the tools with which he proposed to carve out 
a future for himself, corresponding in magnificence and 
security with the dazzling brilliancy of the present, 
upon which he had entered as master and temporary 
owner of Aland and all other properties belonging to 
the defunct Mr. Barrow. 

As things stood at present, Dr. Reynard occupied, 
in the eyes of the world, the position of an upright 
and honorable administrator upon the property of two 
little helpless orphans. And the wise world pro- 
nounced Mrs. Barrow a wise woman for having se- 
lected so shrewd a business man and so correct a gen- 
tleman to take charge of her children’s interests. For 
the present, therefore, all was well. Exceedingly well. 

But time would not stand still even for the Rey- 
nards of this world, and there were two events in the 
future as inevitable as that future itself. Ralph would 
inevitably come of age (if he lived long enough), and 
Helen would as inevitably marry, if she lived long 
enough. When Ralph came of age he would enter 
into mastership of his own fortune. When Helen 
married, Helen’s husband would enter into mastership 
of her fortune. Where then would Dr. Reynard and 
his fortune be ? What more glorious position would 
he occupy than that of a discharged steward? Was 
that to be the end of ail his plotting and planning and 
scheming ? Was that to be the end of his glorious suc- 
cession of successes since the time when he turned his 
back on the crumbling ancestral roof-tree and the old 
folks at home? Was that to be the end of his sacri- 
fice (?) in giving up the passionate, adoring love of 
one whom he strove to forget for the haughty civility 
of his lady wife ? No, by all the gods and goddesses 
that smile upon self-made men, never ! 

So John Reynard cast the Bible mandate, to “take 


SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN! 


15t 


no thought of the morrow,” to the winds, and began 
to take very serious and very constant thought of his 
morrow as soon as he had seen his stepson and 
daughter fairly established at their studies in Europe. 

One of the two inevitable events in the future was 
plainly beyond his jurisdiction, and hence brain-labor 
expended upon it would be sheer waste of capital, and 
Dr. Reynard never wasted anything. Ralph would 
certainly come of age, and would as certainly take pos- 
session of his half of the immense fortune belonging 
to himself and sister. Even the genius of a John 
Reynard could not prevent that, so it must come about 
according to the will of Providence. 

But about Helen’s marriage. That opened a field 
for a glorious coup dlHat, and John Reynard craftily 
concluded to strike it. 

There must be no vulgar, bungling manoeuvring. 
Hone of that coarse match-making business, that was 
so apparent as to be discernible to the very domestics 
about the house. James must be brought upon the 
scene of action while Helen was in Europe. He must 
become almost like an accepted member of the family 
before her return, so that his intimacy at Aland, when 
the young heiress should be at home, should excite no 
comment whatever. He must be trained to ingratiate 
himself with his sister-in-law, and make himself abso- 
lutely indispensable to her at a time when there was 
no apparent object for his flattering attendance upon 
her. Then the denouement must bring itself about in 
a way that was to be totally unexpected to every- 
body, and to no one more than to Dr. Reynard himself. 
Helen married to James would be as good as unmar- 
ried, so far as the control of her property was con- 
cerned. 

Such was the neat groundwork of the plan which 
Dr. Reynard mapped out by way of securing for him- 
self a permanent share of the good things which had 
come to him with the dead man’s shoes. 

James’s introduction into the family was effected 
14* 


158 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


easily enough. He came up from New Orleans, where 
he still resided, to bring his brother some papers too 
important to be intrusted to a badly-conducted post. 

Mrs. Reynard was charmed with the nice young 
man, who, in his turn, was “perfectly enraptured’’ 
with his beautiful, stately sister-in-law, and was so un- 
sophisticated and so genuine that he could not hide his 
admiration at all. 

Mrs. Reynard was rapidly becoming passe ; hence 
a compliment to her personal charms weighed much 
' more heavily than in the halcyon days when she knew 
that she was beautiful, and it was no novelty to be 
told so. 

This ingenuous young flatterer did her good. He 
made her feel young again. To do that is a real kind- 
ness to any woman. He who does it is her benefactor. 
James Reynard slighted the budding beauties of 
Bertha Lombard to lavish extravagant praises upon 
the fading charms of her Aunt Agnes. James was a 
young man of unusual discrimination. She should 
like to have him always near her; besides, he made 
himself so useful. Mrs. Reynard had recently devel- 
oped a passion for flowers. James certainly must 
either have been a natural-born botanical genius or 
else a gardener in disguise. It was wonderful the 
amount of knowledge he suddenly developed on the 
subject of flowers. Dr. Reynard’s business was be- 
coming so pressing that he rarely found time to drive 
his wife out in the pony carriage. James proved him- 
self a perfect Jehu of a whip, at least he would have 
done so, I guess, if the lamlDS which Mrs. Reynard 
drove for ponies had only given him some opportunity 
to display his skill. So essential had he become to 
Mrs. Reynard, after a visit of two weeks’ length, that 
she would not hear of his proposed departure. 

The proposal for him to stay came from Mrs. Rey- 
nard herself. It was at night, after she and her hus- 
band had retired to their own apartment. 

“James tells me he leaves us in the morning,” said 


SUCH A NICE YOUNO MAN! 


159 


Mrs. Reynard, pulling the hairpins out of her hair, as 
she sat before the fire. 

“ Yes, I believe so,’’ replied Dr. Reynard, half sup- 
pressing a yawn of sleepiness or indifference. 

“ I really hate to see him go.” 

“And why, my dear?” asked her husband, inserting 
the heel of his boot in the bootjack. 

“ Because, he is an element of life in this dead old 
house. What with your eternal business, or eternal 
pretense of business, and Bertha’s black dresses and 
blacker looks, one might as well be an Egyptian 
mummy for all the life one sees.” 

“Well, Agnes, my love,” said Dr. Reynard, seeing 
his opportunity and seizing it, “ as far as ‘ my eternal 
business,’ or ‘eternal pretense of business,’ as you call 
it, goes, let me explain to you how utterly unavoidable 
it is that I should attend as closely as I do to the 
affairs of the estate. I wish, my dear wife, so to ad- 
minister the affairs of your children that when the 
time comes that Ralph, as a man, shall desire an ac- 
count of my stewardship, I shall be able to render it 
promptly and without a blush ; and when that still 
more distant time comes when Helen’s husband shall 
desire to know how her property has been administered 
upon, I desire to be able to satisfy him on all points. 
Do you remember, my love, that I was present when 
the deceased Mr. Barrow, your estimable husband, 
died, and heard his dying request that you should giye 
his children an honest man for a stepfather? It ill 
becomes me to boast of my own integrity, but I hum- 
bly hope that when I deliver up the charge of the 
princely fortune your children have inherited, that my 
honesty will make itself apparent to all whom it may 
concern. 

“To this end, my precious Agnes, I have to exercise 
a very close personal supervision of the different plan- 
tations ; and hence, however painful to me, I have to 
deprive myself of a great deal of your society. At 
present I keep all the accounts myself. If I could 


160 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


only find some one in whose honesty I could implicitly 
rely, I should be tempted to employ an assistant.’’ 
Dr. Reynard heaved a sigh of infinite weariness as he 
concluded this pathetic oration. 

Mrs. Reynard’s eyes flashed with the light of in- 
spiration. 

“Oh, Dr. Reynard I I have such an idea! You 
say you want an assistant ; and I want James to stay 
here. Certainly he is a person on whose honesty you 
can implicitly rely.” 

“ My dear Agnes,” said her husband, with effusion, 
“ who but yourself could have devised so pleasant a 
way of settling at once my difiSculty and accomplish- 
ing your own generous ends ? But,” — and he seemed 
plunged in doubt once more, — “how do I know that 
James is a good accountant ?” 

“You can teach him,” said Agnes, promptly, for 
she was bent upon keeping her youthful flatterer and 
useful appendage near her. 

“Well,” said the physician, indifferently, “we will 
sleep upon it, — then decide. Step by step, my dear, — 
never do anything in a hurry.” 

So, it was Mrs. Reynard, and not Dr. Reynard, who 
installed James Reynard at Aland. 


AN ADVERTISEMENT. 


161 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

AN ADVERTISEMENT. 

Bertha Lombard had been a member of the Aland 
household about six months, and Mr. James Reynard 
had been airing his fascinations in the same quarter 
nearly two months of that time, when Dr. Reynard, 
having gotten all his private affairs into satisfactory 
trim, found time to play the benevolent uncle. 

It having occurred to him that it was just possible 
that Bertha’s sweet face and gazelle eyes might prove 
alike dangerous to young James’s heart and his plans, 
he deemed it best to throw some impediment in the 
way of their constant companionship. 

With all his intuitive wisdom, the wizard of Aland 
could not divine that in the bottom of Bertha’s faithful 
little heart there was a stock of ardent affection for 
the absent Ralph that was a better safeguard 'for his 
precious matrimonial schemes than any his crafty 
brain could devise. 

So he became suddenly and violently interested in 
Bertha’s education, which had, indeed, been woefully 
neglected since the death of her parents. But mat- 
ters must be mended, decided the autocrat of Aland. 
The papers which Major Snowe had handed him on 
his deathbed were satisfactory guarantees that Bertha 
had the wherewithal to defray her own expenses. So 
he magnanimously concluded she should be educated. 
As usual, the matter was submitted to Mrs. Reynard. 

“ My dear,” he began, in his mellifluous tones, “ do 
you know that we are neglecting our little niece’s edu- 
cation in an unpardonable manner ?” 

“Yes,” drawled Mrs. Reynard, in a voice of abso- 
lute indifference ; for as Bertha had no expectations, 


162 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


was nobody’s heiress, and was altogether rather an 
unimportant personage, she had wasted but few 
thoughts upon the subject of her education. 

“ Yes,” echoed her spouse, “ and I think it is high 
time she was sent off to school.” 

“Sent off!” exclaimed Agnes, in tones of consider- 
able animation. “ She is entirely too useful to think 
of such a thing. 1 cannot spare her. Old Dora is 
failing every day, and Bertha fills her place splendidly. 
1 suppose she inherits poor Becky’s domestic tastes. I 
really do not think I can spare her.” 

“But, my dear,” said the newly-developed philan- 
thropist, “ are you not acting somewhat selfishly in 
weighing Bertha’s usefulness against her own good ?” 

“ Mercy on us I” cried Agnes, petulantly. “ Can’t 
she be educated at home? Of course no one expects 
her to be accomplished as Helen needs to be ; but she 
can learn all that she needs to learn from a govern- 
ess, who can be hired for much less than Bertha 
could be sent off upon ; and then, you know, she 
can still carry the keys and attend to the pickles and 
things.” 

Dr. Reynard maintained a thoughtful silence. It 
was a rule with him never to press his marital author- 
ity on minor points, whereby he preserved it fresh and 
vigorous for major points. 

He pondered whether in the present instance the 
danger to James was imminent enough to make the 
ostracism of poor little Bertha peremptorily necessary. 
He concluded that it was not. His fertile brain hatched 
a new plan. He would tell James of the glorious des- 
tiny in store for him. And then, if he were worthy of 
his name, it would not lie in him to throw himself away 
upon pennilesS'Bertha when for the waiting he could 
have wealthy Helen. 

“ Well 1” impatiently uttered by Mrs. Reynard, broke 
up his protracted reverie. 

“Well, my dear,” was the amiable rejoinder, “as 
you seem so averse to parting with the dear child, you 


AN ADVERTISEMENT. 


163 


shall have your own way. You certainly have the 
best right to dictate in this matter.’’ 

“ Thank you,” said Agnes, as gratefully as if he 
had yielded a point instead of acting with policy. So 
it was decided that Mr. Blanque, Mrs. Reynard’s com- 
mission merchant, was to be authorized to procure a 
governess for Becky’s daughter. 

After the interchange of one or two letters, and the 
lapse of one or two weeks, there arrived at Aland, 
late one evening, a dark-eyed, sad-browed woman of 
twenty years maybe ; a woman whose face told you 
that the lines of life had not fallen to her in pleasant 
places, whose lips told you nothing. It was a face 
with a history, and a sad one, if the gloom in her eyes 
spoke truth. Bertha saw in her something to love ; 
for she had a heart and a soul, which her Aunt Agnes 
had not. Mrs. Reynard saw in her nothing but the 
governess who was to be sheltered and paid, and — 
nothing more. John Reynard saw, in one startled 
flash of recognition that darted from her dark, gloomy 
eyes, that fate had befriended him again by select- 
ing for Bertha’s governess a woman whose life secret 
chance had placed in his possession. 

Aha I thought this protege of the arch-fiend’s, my 
ex-patient, my pretty little Frenchwoman, with more 
heart than discretion ! I need a tool, and it has been 
sent to me. One more point gained. Step by step, 
John Reynard, — this while Dr. Reynard was courte- 
ously pressing upon the new teacher a leg of fried 
chicken. 


164 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

DR. REYNARD SHARPENS ONE OF HIS TOOLS. 

Otis Barrow’s children had been drinking at Eu- 
ropean founts of knowledge for three years. In two 
more Ralph would be of age. He had already given 
indication of a budding spirit of independence by 
writing home to his mother that it was his inten- 
tion to continue his studies but one year longer, after 
which he proposed traveling a year before returning to 
America. 

This letter had set Dr. Reynard to thinking. A 
young man who had “intentions” and “proposed” 
doing things promised trouble in the future. Ralph 
had signified his intentions and proposals in the plain- 
est English, in black and white, without even the cour- 
tesy of mentioning his (Dr. Reynard’s) name in con- 
nection with those intentions. Ralph was a dangerous 
character. Ralph must be seen to. 

Dr. Reynard cogitated seriously for two or three 
days over the boy’s declaration of independence as 
set forth in his letter to his mother. The result 
of which cogitations, or at least the apparent result, 
, was — a talk with his wife, — only this and nothing 
more. 

“ My love” (the older and more faded Agnes Rey- 
nard became the more prodigal her diplomatic spouse 
became of affectionate appellations), began the self- 
made man, “ Ralph says he intends traveling a year 
before returning to America. I approve highly of his 
intention, for there is nothing that so expands a young 
man’s mind or tends more to give him generous views 
of life and free him from the narrow bigotry of class 
than traveling. Moreover, a youth with your son’s 


DR. REYNARD SHARPENS A TOOL. 165 


brilliant prospects has every right to enjoy all that is 
enjoyable. But, my dear Agnes, do you not think it 
would be rather hazardous for a boy of Ralph’s im- 
pulsive nature, all unsophisticated as he is, to be 
turned loose in a foreign country with an unlimited 
supply of money ? He will inevitably fall a prey to 
sharpers of every description.” 

“ What do you advise, then, — that I write to Ralph 
and tell him we object to his plan of traveling ?” 

“My dear Agnes, by no manner of means. So far 
from objecting, I cordially indorse his plan, and would 
not have the dear boy disappointed for worlds.” 

“ Well, then, what do you wish ?” 

“ What do I wish ? My dear wife, I have no wishes 
on the subject. It is for Ralph’s mother to decide 
alone. I would only advise, and it is natural to pre- 
sume that as a man of the world I should have a 
clearer perception than yourself of the dangers your 
son will be exposed to, rich and inexperienced as he 
is. And my advice is that you send some steady 
young man, young enough and agreeable enough to 
make a pleasant traveling companion, and yet wise 
enough to restrain the boy’s ardent generosity, to 
accompany him on his travels.” 

“ But where can such a rara avis be found ?” asked 
Mrs. Reynard. 

“ At present I am unprepared to say,” answered her 
husband, deceitfully ; “ but we have plenty of time to 
look about us and make a careful selection.” This, 
when he had already resolved that James and none 
other should play mentor to the young heir of Aland. 

Mrs. Reynard had substited her night-cap for her 
chignon, and was reflectively tying the strings thereof 
under her chin, when a bright idea seemed to strike her. 

“ Dr. Reynard I” 

“ Well, my love.” 

“Why should not James accompany Ralph ?” 

Dr. Reynard suspended the operation of pulling off 
his boot, and left the foot in the boot-jack, while his 
15 


166 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


countenance took on a thoughtful cast. “Well, my 
dear, I don’t know.” 

“ I do,” replied Mrs. Reynard, briskly ; “ he will 
answer every purpose better than any one we can pos- 
sibly get, I am sure.” 

“ You always have your own way, ma chere ; as I said 
before, the decision must rest entirely with yourself.” 

“ Then, I say James shall go, and, of course,” she 
continued, regally, “I defray his expenses.” 

“ Of course you do nothing of the kind. James has 
been receiving a salary as my agent, which will be 
ample for his modest desires.” 

So Mrs. Reynard sent her son a traveling companion. 
And Dr. Reynard had a brotherly talk with the young 
man on the eve of his departure. 

A private room in a restaurant was the chosen spot 
for this fraternal discourse, young James’s role being 
to sit very quietly, listen very attentively, and imbibe 
his brother’s views and desires very conscientiously. 

“ Remember, my lad,” said John the Great to James 
the Little, “that in this European trip I am giving 
you another great lift, and I may as well say here, 
candidly, that it will, in all probability, be the last one. 
After what I have done for you, and am about to do 
for you, you will prove yourself a very poor stick, in- 
deed, sir, if you cannot step into a fortune.” 

Young James murmured some half-audible expres- 
sions of undying gratitude towards his brother and 
benefactor. 

“ This visit to foreign countries ought to enable you 
to shine in the very best society. You are good-look- 
ing enough:” 

James the Little stroked his fierce moustache com- 
placently. 

“You are not wanting in brain, and if you cannot 
manage to cut out the country boors that will be 
dancing around Helen Barrow as soon as she appears 
in society, you don’t deserve half the good fortune 
you’ve already met with, sir.” 


DR. REYNARD SHARPENS A TOOL. 167 


If brass and self-complacency are characteristics 
calculated, to win their way with the coming heiress of 
Aland, the “ rustic boors” will stand but a poor chance, 
indeed. 

“ And now for the real object of your journey.^ Mrs. 
Reynard wishes you to accompany her son on his trav- 
els. He proposes spending one year and God knows 
how many thousand dollars in wandering around aim- 
lessly before he comes home to take possession of his 
property. I think it the best plan for me to talk to 
you very plainly. There is no love lost between Ralph 
Barrow and myself. He hates me because, I suppose, 
I stepped into his father’s shoes ; he hates me as he 
would have hated any other man under the same cir- 
cumstances. I have no reason to love him, because I 
have always found him an unruly, turbulent boy, — 
insolent in the extreme when a mere child, and, of 
course, coming home doubly charged with insolence. 
So, you can fancy that Ralph Barrow’s future happi- 
ness is not the nearest thing to my heart. . His mother 
sends you over, loaded with minute and foolish injunc- 
tions to keep Ralph away from temptations ; to curb 
him in the expenditure of money, and to influence him 
against drinking. I say you are not to interfere with 
the boy in any respect, unless you want him to turn 
his back on you for your impudence. You are not 
even to let him know that you have been sent by any 
one. The knowledge that you are my brother will in- 
cline him against you in the first place ; then, if you 
were to undertake to play mentor, you would find 
yourself politely requested to mind your own business. 
Remember, you are simply to accompany him as any 
other young man who proposed a year’s travel might 
do. You have no right to keep him out of temptation, 
for he is his own master, — only see that you share in 
his amusements in moderation yourself, as your future 
has still to be made. You will not undertake to curb 
him in his expenditure of money, for the money is 
his own, and any interference on your part or mine, 


168 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


would be the height of impertinence. As for his 
drinking, he is certainly the best judge o/ what he 
shall drink, and how much he can stand. But in this 
connection, let me say to yourself, whatever you drink, 
avoid \hat most fearful of liquid poison, absinthe. If 
there was any one in this world whom I desired to 
wreck mentally and physically, I would cultivate in 
him a taste for absinthe. It is a most seductive 
drink, — a fondness for it is easily acquired, and once 
acquired nothing on earth can cure. So, whatever you 
do individually, my boy, avoid absinthe. Of course, 
if young Barrow should choose to imbibe it, — and I 
understand it is a very popular drink in France, — you 
can warn him casually of the probable results, but you 
are not in a position to assume any of the responsi- 
bility of his actions. Another piece of advice for 
your personal consideration : Homburg is a fashiona- 
ble watering-place, which Ralph will, most undoubt- 
edly, desire to visit. Let me forewarn you that the 
baths of Homburg are simply the ostensible attrac- 
tions. It is the great gaming hell of Europe, — a place 
harmless enough to a young man with an unlimited 
fortune, such as Ralph Barrow’s, but remember that, 
though he may spend his thousands there with perfect 
impunity, you are poor, and must live according to 
your very limited means. I believe now I have said 
enough. I preferred giving you my parting injunc- 
tions in private, and, of course, in confidence, for you 
kuow women understand but poorly how men of the 
world and in the world are compelled to act ; and if 
you were to assume toward Ralph Barrow the position 
my good wife assigned you, you would simply make 
an enemy of him for life, and do no one any good. I 
hope you fully understand me.” And John Reynard 
looked across the table at James Reynard steadily, 
with a look so full of meaning in his wicked, black 
eyes that if any doubt of his meaning remained on 
his brother’s mind, that look would have annihilated it 
forever. 


NO ONE TO BLAME. 


169 


“ Yes, I understand, ’’ was all his reply in words, but 
his mental tablets bore this memorandum : 

I am to lead Ralph Barrow into every species of 
temptation. I am to encourage him to get through 
with as much of his money as possible. I am to take 
him to the gambling hells of Europe, and feed him on 
absinthe, for all of which kind services I am to be re- 
warded with the hand of his sister Helen. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

NO ONE TO BLAME. 

So it came about that just as Ralph Barrow was 
taking leave of his Alma Mater, who had been most 
truly a “benign mother” to him, imposing no impos- 
sible tasks, demanding no arduous application, indul- 
gent to laxity, after the manner of mothers, Mr. James 
Reynard made his appearance on the scene, bringing 
with him letters of introduction to young Barrow from 
his stepfather and mother. These letters simply con- 
veyed to Ralph the idea that by a coincidence of de- 
sires Mr. James Reynard bad conceived the intention 
of making a European tour at the same time with 
himself, that he was a lively, agreeable young man, 
and would prove a genial companion, and recom- 
mended him to Ralph as a most desirable fellow-trav- 
eler. 

Ralph possessed too much of his father’s honest, 
unsuspicious nature to entertain a dislike to the bearer 
of these letters simply because he was the brother of 
the stepfather toward whom he still felt so bitterly, so 
he gave Mr. James Reynard a cordial welcome that 
was characteristic of himself as a generous -hearted 
boy and a whole-souled Southerner. 

15 * 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ItO 

Emancipated from all college restraint, Ralph started 
out buoyant and joyous to “ see life,’’ as he said, “ and 
to have one real jolly year of it before he settled down 
as a business man.” 

Paris, that wonder of the world, that bright, glit- 
tering, dazzling light that has lured so many thousand 
poor, fluttering moths to destruction and death, beck- 
oned to him with her ten thousand seductive and irre- 
sistible fascinations. He went, and was soon plunged 
in the vortex of Parisian gayeties. He had plenty of 
money and no one to restrain him ; he was seeing life 
— seeing it with a vengeance. He very soon formed 
a coterie of fast spirits, who flattered him to his face, 
ate his suppers, drank fine wines at his expense, won 
his money from him at the card-table, then enjoyed 
behind his back the exquisite pleasure of laughing at 
the “American freshman,” the “ Southern swell,” who 
spent his money on them so freely and swallowed 
their fulsome flattery so greedily. And all the time, 
quiet and watchful, Mephistopheles Reynard kept 
closely at his side, uttering little suggestive remon- 
strances that served only to irritate Ralph by a sus- 
picion of attempted authority, and acted as fuel to the 
flames. 

All the mad, wild pleasures of the mad, wild city, 
Ralph would see — must enjoy. What everybody in 
Paris did, Ralph would do. Such was his declaration 
of independence when James Reynard mildly asked 
him “ if he did not think he was going it at too rapid 
a pace.” 

The question was asked as the two sat over a late 
breakfast in a fashionable cafe one morning, after a 
night of more than usual dissipation on Ralph’s part. 

“ Mr. Reynard,” replied the young man, drawing 
himself up loftily, “ were you sent over here by my 
stepfather, your respected brother, to act as a spy 
upon my actions and play mentor ? or did you come, as 
you professed to do, merely to prosecute your travels 
at the same time ?” 


NO ONE TO BLAME.. 


in 


“My dear Ralph,” said James, hastily, “I hope 
what I said gave no offense ; of course I am not here 
‘as a spy or mentor,’ equally of course I have no de- 
sire to interfere with your enjoyments, only, my dear 
boy, as your senior, I thought I might safely venture 
on a word of friendly advice, — I considered that the 
family connection subsisting between us warranted so 
much ; besides, my desire to act according to your dear 
mother’s parting injunction may have caused me to 
overstep the limits of my privileges.” 

“And pray, what might have been the ‘ parting in- 
junction of my dear mother’ ? ” asked Ralph, with a 
sneer. 

“ In your present frame of mind, Ralph, it would 
only anger you to hear it, and prejudice you still more 
against me as a companion.” This was scientific ; for 
he knew that it would make the already irritated boy 
determined to hear it. 

“ I insist upon hearing what injunctions my mother 
saw fit to give a perfect stranger concerning me, sir,” 
replied Ralph, angrily. 

“ My dear Ralph, it is nothing to grow angry over : 
only as I was telling my sister-in-law good-by she 
begged me, earnestly, ‘ to take good care of her boy, 
and keep him out of temptation.’ ” 

The effect was exactly what James Reynard antici- 
pated. Ralph grew purple with rage, and swelled 
with all the insane wrath of adolescent manhood at 
any insult offered its newly-fledged dignity. 

“Let me give you to understand, Mr. Reynard, 
once and for all, that I am my own master, will do as 
I please, and spend just as much money as I please ; 
if you propose assuming any authority over me, we 
had best part company right here; if you desire to 
continue in my company,” he continued, loftily, “ as a 
traveling companion, you are perfectly welcome, sir.” 

“My dear Mr. Barrow,” replied James, diplomati- 
cally, “ of course I do not desire to assume any author- 
ity over you ; neither my position nor my years would 


112 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


warrant such an attempt. I inadvertently alluded to 
some words spoken by your mother in a natural burst 
of maternal anxiety concerning you, — words which 
were certainly never intended for your ears, and which 
I am sorry you compelled me to repeat, for it will be 
hard now for me to disabuse your mind of the idea 
that I had a twofold object in this journey; and if such 
an idea once gains a foothold with you, it will put an 
end to that free and easy intercourse which has hitherto 
subsisted between us.’’ 

“ Not at all, not at all,” replied Ralph, whose anger 
was always short-lived, and he generously extended 
his hand across the table in token of amity ; “ as 
friends we can get along together first-rate ; but I have 
no notion of being tied to my mother’s apron strings 
even by proxy. Maybe,” he continued, in a soberer 
voice, “ if she had been a tenderer or more attentive 
mother in my early childhood when I needed her care 
and affection most, I should not be so independent of 
them now ; but as far back as I can recollect, mother 
was but a careless, cold parent, who seemed to look 
upon Helen and myself as incumbrances of which she 
could not rid herself. She left me to take care of my- 
self when I was a child, — and any anxiety on the score 
of my ability to do so now seems rather misplaced if 
not hypocritical,” he concluded, bitterly. 

“ My dear Ralph, you are surely mistaken,” began 
Mr. Reynard. 

“No, sir, I am not mistaken,” interrupted Ralph ; 
“ all the love and care and kindness that Helen and my- 
self knew as children came from father and poor Aunt 
Becky and my darling little Bertha, who is at this 
moment the most precious thing the world holds for 
me.” 

The conversation was taking a sentimental tone 
which did not at all suit Mr. Reynard’s turn of mind. 

“My dear boy,” he said, noticing the young man’s 
untasted breakfast, “you have no appetite this morn- 
ing ; late hours are beginning to tell on you ; take some 


NO ONE TO BLAME. 


173 


bitters of some sort, — something to give you an appe- 
tite : you really look pale this morning.” 

“ What shall it be ?” asked Ralph, indifferently, 
playing with the spoon of his untasted chocolate. “ I 
am not ashamed to acknowledge that I do feel most 
deucedly knocked up this morning. Call for some- 
thing, I don’t care what.” 

“A little absinthe,” said the tool, “is the best ap- 
petizer I know of; but, my dear Ralph, at the risk of 
making you angry again, I must forewarn you that 
although one of the most seductive of drinks, it is at 
the same time one of the most dangerous, though you 
are hardly likely to become a regular absinthe-drinker.” 

This was neat. To recommend a drink to a young 
man who is avowedly on the search for seductive 
pleasures as “seductive but dangerous,” is certainly 
all-sufficient commendation. 

Ralph called for absinthe. James Reynard, to his 
credit be it said, saw him drink his first glass with 
qualms of conscience that might have led to good re- 
sults if he had had a more tractable victim to deal 
with ; but, unfortunately, Ralph’s dogged obstinacy 
and scornful repudiation of all interference only sealed 
his own doom. 

Under the influence of the “ appetizer,” Ralph’s di- 
gestive organs revived wonderfully, and with his re- 
stored appetite he recovered perfect good humor. 

“Reynard,” he exclaimed, as, cigars in mouth, they 
sauntered out of the cafe, “ don’t you think we’ve seen 
about enough of this Babel ? Where shall we go ? Name 
the place, and I’ll agree.” 

“ I think,” said his companion, “that a change to 
some watering-place would be the best renovator for 
you. You’ve been doing Paris a little too rapidly; 
suppose we try Homburg ; according to the advertise- 
ments, it’s the most charming of terrestrial paradises, 
what with its mountains and fountains, and oaks and 
pines, and mineral springs, and ” 

“ That’s enough,” said Ralph. “ Homburg is the 
place.” 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


lU 

So to Homburg they went, — tool and victim. 

For the first week or two of his sojourn there, Ralph 
shared in the varied amusements of the place tolerably 
impartially, but it was not long before the magnificent 
Kursaal, with its wealth of Florentine architecture, its 
gilded walls, its rich mirrors, and satin curtains, had 
attracted the attention of the young American, who 
entered the temple of fortune at first from a curious 
desire to see wherein lay the immense fascination that 
could lead prince and peer and titled dame to elbow 
and jostle round the roulette-table with artisans and 
laborers and gamblers. 

He went and saw, and was conquered. Rouge-et- 
noir and roulette became the business of Ralph Bar- 
row’s life, — drinking absinthe his recreation. 

The small proportion of sober visitors at Hom- 
burg, who were not devotees in the Kursaal, and who 
had time to indulge in the unique employment of mor- 
alizing, looked on with pity at the mad young Ameri- 
can who was making way with his brains and his 
money at such a fearful pace, while they spoke with 
profound admiration of the steady, quiet young man 
who kept so faithfully by the side of his wild friend, 
and tried so earnestly to win him from the error of his 
ways. 

Yes, patiently and quietly the tool followed the 
victim from point to point, never failing to utter little 
plaintive remonstrances at a time when he knew they 
would be most likely to inflame the boy’s passions, and 
exasperate him to new excesses. 

Faithfully he reported progress to his brother by 
letter, and each letter was a model of propriety and 
well-assumed interest for the poor young man whose 
downward career he was evidently watching with such 
exceeding pain, and trying to check with such virtuous 
ardor. 

These letters were kept from Mrs. Reynard, as they 
were naturally calculated to lacerate her maternal 
heart most cruelly; but finally, when the year of 


NO ONE TO BLAME. 


m 

travel had almost expired, there came one of such 
alarming terror that Dr. Reynard felt compelled to 
show it to the young profligate’s mother. 

The letter was written from Paris, to which place 
they had returned after their wanderings, and it was 
written in genuine fright by Mr. James Reynard, who 
had obeyed the implied instructions with which his 
brother had. sent him forth, without fully conceiving 
the inevitable consequences. The consequences were 
beginning to show now, and the tool, who did not 
possess half the genius nor any of the cold blood of 
his wonderful brother, began to tremble at the mischief 
he had helped to bring about. 

“Dear John,” ran the letter, “I wish either you or 
Mrs. Reynard would come on and try to prevail upon 
Ralph to return home. I have been at him incessantly 
for the last two months to induce him to start for 
America, but only get curses and abuse for my pains. 
He is in a very strange condition mentally, and I have 
called in the very best physicians to him, but he re- 
fuses to have anything done for him. 

“I would describe his condition as one of settled 
melancholy. His face is sad, his eyes sunken and sor- 
rowful. He has not been sick, and yet when he stands 
up, or tries to walk, his limbs tremble as if from ex- 
treme weakness. He will sit for hours at a time with- 
out speaking, unless spoken to, and then his memory 
seems to be at fault about a great many events of very 
recent date. His condition is to me most alarming, 
although the doctors say perfect quiet and the discon- 
tinuance of all ardent drinks will restore him in a short 
time. As I have no authority over him, I cannot in- 
sure either ; so you will please either come on your- 
self or request his mother to do so immediately on re- 
ceipt of this. 

“ James Reynard.” 

This letter reached Aland in due course of time, and 
was read by Dr. Reynard,— I will not say with abso- 


116 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


lute satisfaction, but at least without one pulsation of 
regret or remorse. 

He was in the library when the mail was brought 
to him, and, after reading it, he rang the bell and re- 
quested the boy who answered it to tell his mistress 
that he should like to see her immediately. 

Mrs. Reynard obeyed the summons promptly, as 
she generally did obey summons from Dr, Reynard. 

“My dear,” began the self-made man, looking ex- 
ceedingly grave as Agnes seated herself on the oppo- 
site side of the table at which he was sitting, “ for 
some time past I have been receiving letters from 
James, which have made me feel uneasy about Ralph ; 
but, as I knew all young men, and especially all 
wealthy young men, had a certain quantity of wild 
oats to sow, I have deemed it best not to disturb your 
peace of mind by showing you those letters ; in short, 
Ralph has acquired a taste for drinking, and I am 
afraid, from what James writes me, he is carrying it 
to rather an unusual excess.” 

“I thought James was sent over to prevent that,” 
said Mrs. Reynard, shortly. 

“We hoped, my love, that James might be a re- 
straining influence, but for some time past he has been 
writing me word that Ralph would not brook the 
slightest interference on his part. I suppose the dif- 
ference in their ages was too slight.” 

“Well,” said his wife, “what does this letter say? 
give it to me.” 

Dr. Reynard handed the letter over. Agnes Rey- 
nard read therein the intelligence that her first-born 
and only son was bordering on lunacy, that he was 
nearly a wreck, mentally and physically. 

Her face was white and frightened as she glanced 
up at her husband when she had finished reading it. 

“ You must go for him immediately,” she said. 

“ I rather think, my dear Agnes, that you would be 
the most fitting person to go. In one of James’s earli- 
est letters, written very soon after he joined your son, 


NO ONE TO BLAME. 


in 


he repeated some expressions of Ralph’s which makes 
me think that I am the last person who could hope to 
influence him in any way. Remember that your son 
is very nearly of age. His next birthday he will be 
twenty-one ; he scorned my authority when a mere 
boy, and it is not likely he will submit to it now when 
he is a man. There is nothing for it but for you to go 
on for him yourself, my dear Agnes, and while there, 
it will probably be best for you to bring Helen home 
too. It will be altering our plans for her somewhat, 
but Ralph will find his plantation home so insulferable 
after his gay life abroad, that in order to keep him 
satisfied, we will have to make that home as attractive 
as possible. I think Helen, with her vivacity, and 
Bertha’s entrancing music, will help us in our object.” 

Mrs. Reynard knew that his arguments in favor of 
her going and his staying were unanswerable, because 
perfectly true, so there was nothing for it but for her 
to make hurried preparation to go on after the heir of 
Aland. 

“My dear,” said Dr. Reynard, before closing the 
interview, “ I think it will be best not to let any of the 
household know that you are going on for Ralph es- 
pecially, for the sea voyage and the change of his style 
of living may entirely restore him before he reaches 
home, and by keeping silence a great deal of annoying 
gossip will be avoided.” 

“ I am not likely to advertise the world of the fact 
that my son has turned out a drunkard,” said Mrs. 
Reynard, sharply. 

“ Don’t put it so harshly, my love ; Ralph is simply 
suffering temporarily from too free indulgence in those 
pleasures in which every young man of means and 
feshion participates. A few months of retirement and 
perfect abstemiousness is all that is required to restore 
him to robust health,” replied her husband, truthfully. 

Bertha was a little astonished, and very much dcj 
lighted, when informed that her aunt had suddenly 
resolved to bring the “children” home. 

16 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Its 

In less than a week after James Reynard’s letter had 
reached Aland, Mrs. Reynard was on her way to New 
York. Dr. Reynard accompanied her that far, polite 
and attentive, — regretting the necessity that compelled 
him to remain behind, but affirming that in the boy’s 
present condition the sight of the stepfather who had 
always been so obnoxious to him might have a most 
disastrous effect. 

His parting words were replete with the spirit of 
Christian forbearance : 

“ Do not reproach your boy, my dear wife. Deal 
kindly with him. Win him to talk to you freely and fear- 
lessly. And above all, do not allow your own spirits 
to become depressed. Remember, my love, he is suf- 
fering but temporarily from youthful excesses, — ex- 
cesses for which no one is to blame, and for which he 
is much to be pitied.” No I no one was to blame ! 

It was simply Homburg plus absinthe plus James 
Reynard plus John Reynard equaling a poor wrecked 
boy. Ah ! where was the God of the orphan ? 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

FANCIES NOT FACTS. 

The period which Rosine Chevreul, the French gov- 
erness, and Bertha Lombard spent alone at Aland, 
pending the coming of the heir and heiress of the place, 
short as it was, was afterwards looked back upon by 
Rosine Chevreul as the brightest and happiest episode 
of her life. 

Becky’s child had grown up to be as lovely in per- 
son as in character. She had inherited all the beauty 
of her aunts with all the admirable characteristics 
which had made Rebecca Snowe so sterling a woman. 


FANCIES NOT- FACTS. 


119 


Tall and graceful, as her Aunt Agnes had been be- 
fore her, she combined, with thg dignified stateliness 
inherited from that lady, the affectionate warmth of her 
mother’s disposition, which prevented her dignity de- 
generating into that stiff hauteur which had made 
Agnes Snowe so repellant. Instead of the cold, gray 
eyes of the Snowe family, she had the large, lustrous 
brown ones which had so beautified Dr. Lombard’s 
otherwise plain face. She possessed her Aunt Julia’s 
diminutive, pretty hands and feet, but was blessed 
with the good sense and the desire to make those 
little hands of some use in the world. Her crown of 
glory was a wealth of wavy chestnut-brown hair, 
which she must surely have inherited from some un- 
known Lombard ancestor; for there was nothing to 
compare with it in any member of the Snowe family. 
Add to this catalogue of personal charms a pair of 
delicious dimples that trembled and quivered around a 
mouth always ready for sweet smiles and gentle 
words, and you have a faithful portrait of Becky Lom- 
bard’s child. 

Nature seemed to have taken a fancy to compensate 
for the plainness which had been the mother’s portion 
in youth, by bestowing upon the daughter all the beau- 
tiful features and desirable characteristics that had 
been scattered among the various members of the 
family for so long ; and the tout-ensemble made a most 
lovely and lovable girl. 

Bertha was far too pretty to meet with her aunt’s 
cordial indorsement. 

She was wonderfully useful to Mrs. Reynard, — so 
useful, in fact, that the idea of having to do without 
her would not have been tolerated for a moment by 
that lady. Old Dora, the factotum of Aland, had 
been reduced by time to a querulous, purblind, almost 
useless old grumbler. Her mantle of usefulness had 
fallen upon Bertha’s pretty shoulders, and as the 
young girl had inherited her mother’s energy with her 
domestic tastes, she wore the mantle gracefully and 


180 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


cheerfully. She carried the keys, helped with the pre- 
serving and pickling, superintended the dairies, and 
withal was such a bright, cheery, amiable little house- 
keeper that her sway was submitted to cheerfully and 
lovingly by the simple-hearted slaves over whom she 
reigned so gently. There was no doubt that Bertha 
was absolutely indispensable at Aland, but Mrs. Rey- 
nard would have been much better pleased if, with all 
her usefulness, she had been several shades less orna- 
mental. 

In her relations as pupil Bertha was no less lovable. 
Bright and attentive, loving study dearly and loving 
her gentle, pretty instructress dearly also, the school- 
hours Avere very happy ones, both to Rosine Chevreul 
and Bertha. 

Rosine Chevreul was of a fiery, passionate nature, — 
burdened with a secret sorrow, suffering from bitter 
memories. Bertha Lombard was of a pure, bright 
nature, rendered patient and charitable by early sor- 
row, — looking back with chastened regret over a sad 
but sinless past, — looking forward buoyantly and hope- 
fully to the unknown future which youth always fills 
to repletion with blessings bright and manifold. 

The intercourse between these two did them good 
mutually. Bertha cheered Rosine and Rosine’s sad- 
ness brought Bertha’s loving charity into active play. 

Loving each other dearly, they were nowise loath to 
be left dependent upon each other for company when 
the master and mistress of Aland started out on their 
journey. 

They buzzed around the house as busy as two little 
bees all day long, for Bertha had undertaken to see 
that Ralph’s and Helen’s rooms should be renovated 
and aired and beautified, and rendered worthy of the 
two superior mortals whom her loving heart declared 
to be so very, very superior. Ralph’s room occupied 
her most earnest attention. The pillow-slips on which 
his dear head was to rest must be the most daintily 
ruffled and the most neatly fluted ones the linen-closet 


FANCIES NOT FACTS. 


181 


afforded. The pink Marseilles quilt must go on his 
French bedstead, because the plain white looked so 
chilly and cold. The great morocco cliair, which stood 
in the library, must be wheeled into Ralph’s room, be- 
cause that used to belong to Uncle Barrow, and it 
would please Ralph to use it for his very own now. 
The watch-case, which she had made with her own 
deft little fingers, was hung in a conspicuous place over 
the mantelpiece, for Ralph was a man now and, of 
course, he carried a watch. Everything that a loving 
heart or woman’s head could think of was thought of 
to insure the comfort and to give token of affectionate 
forethought for Bertha’s coming hero. 

Ralph’s room was in “apple-pie order,” as she in- 
formed Miss Chevreul, and the key to the door was 
jingling in her key-basket weeks and weeks before they 
could possibly be expected home; and there was very 
little left to do but to wait, and of all hard things to 
do that is certainly th« hardest for a young, impatient 
soul, especially when that soul is filled to the brim 
with pure, ardent affection for the expected ones. 

“Tell me what they are both like, Bertha,” said 
Rosine one day, more to give the young girl an excuse 
for talking on her favorite theme than from any great 
curiosity she entertained on the subject. 

“ What are they like ?” replied Bertha, with alacrity. 
“ Oh, I expect they must be very much changed per- 
sonally, but I hope not in any other way, for I 
shouldn’t like them half so well if they were. Well, 
Cousin Helen, when she went away, was the brightest, 
sweetest, most winsome little pug-nosed monkey you 
ever saw. She used to have her own way with every- 
thing and everybody, yet she managed it so that she 
never gave offense to any. If she thought she had 
hurt any one’s feelings by a quick word or inconsiderate 
action, she would put her little chubby arms around 
one’s neck, and say she was sorry for it so sweetly 
that it made one feel like eating her up.” 

IG* 


182 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“Does she resemble her mother in any respect?’ 
asked the governess. 

“Oh, she’s not the least bit dignified, nor cold, nor 
stately,” replied Bertha; “in fact, I think aunt would 
prefer her being more so. Aunt used to call her the 
incorrigible ; but, of course, all that is past and gone. 
Aunt Yerzenay is such an elegant lady that I expect 
she has polished poor little Helen out of all recognition.” 

“ Has she corresponded with you regularly ?” 

“No,” said Bertha, reluctantly, “she has not. At 
first she did, and her letters were very sweet and 
cousinly; but latterly she has never written to me di- 
rectly, and the cold little messages I receive through 
aunt’s letters make me think the Cousin Helen who is 
coming is not the Cousin Helen that I knew.” 

“ And what about Cousin Ralph ?” said Miss Chev- 
reul, looking up from her embroidery with a meaning 
smile. 

“ Oh, Cousin Ralph is just the dearest, handsomest, 
bravest boy that ever lived !” replied the young girl, 
fearlessly. “ He has not changed, — he cannot change. 
The last letter he wrote me was just as kind, just as 
affectionate, as the very first.” 

“ How long since you received that last one ?” asked 
Rosine, solely to give the child an excuse for continu- 
ing her pet subject. 

“Oh, you know,” cried Bertha, womanlike, quick to 
apologize for her love before any apology was asked, 
“ since he has been traveling 1 have not looked for 
letters, for he was coming home so soon; and it must 
be so inconvenient to keep writing letters home from 
every little place one stops at.” 

Thus encouraged, Bertha would ramble on for hours 
about the two cousins who occupied so entirely the 
heart left vacant by the death of her father, mother, 
and grandfather. She was drawing fancy pictures 
and presenting them to Miss Chevreul for true por- 
traits, for she was drawing her pictures of Ralph and 
Helen Barrow from memory, and memory’s pictures. 


MADEMOISELLE HELENE BARROW. 183 

touched up by a bright and loving fancy, make very at- 
tractive portraits, indeed. How these fancies will 
compare with the facts we shall soon see. 

Bertha was happy with bright anticipations. Rosine 
was cheerful from sympathy, and because for the time 
being she was relieved of the leaden weight under 
which Mrs. Reynard’s repellant manners crushed her, 
and of the dangerous presence of the man, — the one 
being now on earth who could force her to think of 
her drear, dead past. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

MADEMOISELLE HELENE BARROW. 

A TELEGRAM fi'om New York, at which point Dr. 
Reynard awaited the return of his family, had reached 
Aland, specifying the very day on which they might 
be expected to reach Aland. Bertha fluttered around 
on the momentous morning in a perfect quiver of ex- 
citement. The carriages had been started off to meet the 
boat hours and hours before the very earliest moment at 
which it had ever been known to arrive. The daintiest 
bouquets were gathered and placed in the two rooms 
destined for Ralph and Helen. Of course, they must 
be terribly literary ; so she scattered books with care- 
ful carelessness about their apartments. She gave a 
tender little pat to each faultlessly spread bed, and 
then wished she could find something else to do to 
show the dear ones who were coming how dear they 
really were. “ I wonder,” she murmured softly as she 
closed the door upon the flowers and books, “ if Ralphy 
will think the flowers syNQQi. because I gathered them 
for him. I wonder if the watch-case will look pretty 


184 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


to him because I made it for him,” and she grew pink 
with her loving conjectures. 

Then she ran in search of Aunt Dora to ask for the 
twentieth time if she could think of no addition to the 
bill of fare which she had ordered for the travelers^ 
dinner, from the elaborate nature of which one might 
infer than the Barrows had been on- starvation diet in 
the desert of Sahara for at least six months. 

But the elaborate dinner was cooked to cinders in 
the waiting, for, with a perversity that was certainly 
human in its malice, the boat came hours later than 
she had ever been known to come before. 

Even Bertha’s angelic patience gave way under the 
delay. She conjured up a thousand accidents in the 
space of twenty minutes. The boat had blown up — 
the vessel had been wrecked before they reached New 
York — the horses had run away with them after they 
had landed 

‘‘ But, my dear Bertha,” interrupted Miss Chevreul, 
with her sad half smile, “ wouldn’t it be a remarkable 
coincidence if the carriage-horses, ‘the bugg3"-horses, 
and the van-horses should all run away at once ?” 

“ Oh, I know I haven’t an ounce of reason in me, 
dear Miss Chevreul. But I’m so anxious to see them 
I can’t help fidgeting a little bit. Kiss me, and I’ll 
try to be patient.” 

The governess’s pale lips trembled as she pressed 
them to Bertha’s sweet, pure lips: “We’ve been so 
happy here together, child, that I dread the coming 
of these fashionable cousins.” 

^Before Bertha had time to reply, the sound of wheels 
was heard, and she bounded forward to greet her be- 
loved cousins, dragging the reluctant governess with 
her. 

In front of the large gate at the end of the lauria- 
mundi avenue stood the open baggage-van piled to a 
mountainous height with huge trunks and boxes and 
valises. 

“ What mountains of baggage!” exclaimed Bertha, 
in astonishment. 


MADEMOISELLE HMJ^ME BARROW. 185 

At this moment, a female, all flounces and frills and 
ribbons, appeared from amid the huge trunks where 
she had apparently lain perdu, and scrambled awk- 
wardly to the ground, where she- commenced a vigorous 
shaking and pulling and smoothing out of her ruffled 
plumage, looking at her dusty shoes and crumpled 
flounces with a most rueful expression of countenance. 

Miss Chevreul and Bertha watched these evolutions 
of the unknown with wondering eyes. 

“ Can that be Helen asked Bertha, opening her 
brown eyes to their widest extent ; “ it would be just 
like her,” she added, merrily, ‘‘ to come home in the 
baggage-wagon if the carriage was too close for her.” 
With which words she sprang down the steps to meet 
the beflounced young female, who had entered the gate 
and was tripping up the long walk with a finikin, 
mincing step which excited Bertha’s risibles almost 
beyond control. They advanced toward each other, 
staring at each other like two strange cats. Bertha 
vainly seeking for some trace of a likeness to Helen 
Barrow in the advancing stranger, who, in her turn, 
was gazing with inward admiration at the beautiful 
young lady gliding toward her so gracefully. “ Who 
are you, anyhow ?” asked Bertha, coming to an abrupt 
pause a few paces off from the young female ; for she 
knew that broad, good-humored face, those small, 
twinkling black eyes, and that mass of coarse, coal- 
black hair could not belong to her Cousin Helen. 
Whatever else France and Madame Yerzenay might 
have accomplished in the way of metamorphosing the 
Helen Barrow she had known, they could not ha^fe 
changed the color of her hair and eyes. “ Who are 
you, anyhow ?” she asked again, and she of the flounces, 
answering the puzzled inquiry of Miss Lombard’s eyes 
rather than the words which conveyed very little of 
the young lady’s meaning to her foreign senses, said, 
by way of self-introduction, — 

“ I have Mademoiselle Hfflhne Barrow’s femme de 
chambre.” And the poor French maid, having used up 


186 


JDEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


her entire stock of English in an abortive attempt to 
Anglicize her verb, relapsed into silence. 

“ Oh, you have, have you replied Bertha, break- 
ing into a merry little laugh of genuine amusement. 
“Well, take her into the house.” 

But the bewildered Frenchwoman failed to glean any 
meaning from Bertha’s reply, and Bertha being mistress 
only of that sort of cabinet French which enabled her 
to write her French exercises correctly, and translate 
her “ Charles XII.” without disgracing herself, did not 
care to make herself ridiculous in the eyes of Helen’s 
maid by returning English-French for her French- 
English, so she merely beckoned toward the veranda, 
where Miss Chevreul stood watching them, and called 
out merrily to her governess, “Miss Rosine, please 
call this poor French goose there, and tell her what to 
do with herself, I can’t talk to her ; and please tell her 
too which are Mademoiselle Helene Barrow^s rooms, — 
I suppose that’s French for Cousin Helen. Don’t I 
wish I could roll my r’s as she does ; it sounds like dis- 
tant thunder.” 

Miss Chevreul called the French girl toward her, 
and Bertha passed on to the gate to look down the 
road for the other vehicles. 

The boy who had driven the baggage -cart was 
busy unloading it, and placing the immense trunks 
inside the gate on the white gravel-walk, whose purity 
no vehicle was ever allowed to tarnish. The last 
trunk had been deposited on the gravel, and the cart 
was empty; but the boy still stood there holding a 
small morocco satchel in his hands, and looking the 
picture of perplexity and distress when Bertha came up. 

“ Miss Bertha,” he said, raising his cap from his 
head respectfully, “what you call this yer thing I’se 
boldin’? — please, ma’am.” 

“ Why, Grus, I call it a satchel,” said Bertha, looking 
at him in surprise. 

“Well, then. Miss Bertha, I done loss something, 
sho’,” he said, scratching his head in token of per- 


MADEMOISELLE HELLJNE BARROW. 18t 

plexity, and peering again over the sides of the empty 
van. 

“ Why do you think so, Gus? Surely my cousins 
couldn’t have brought home any more baggage than 
that.” And she turned to survey the regiment of 
trunks which was marshaled in the avenue. 

'‘Oh, them’s all the trunks,” said Gus, positively, 
" an’ I didn’t see nothin’ more’n this yer little bag ; 
but missy, she say, ' Gus, you goes ahead wid my 
trunks an’ my fam-shom ;’ and. Miss Berthy, ma’am, 
ef this yer little bag ain’t the fam-shom, I done loss it, 
sho’.” 

Bertha’s laugh rang out clearly and merrily. Gus 
looked on in stolid unconsciousness of the point of the 
joke, but felt reassured, nevertheless, for he knew Miss 
Bertha was too kind to laugh at him if there was real 
cause for anxiety. He waited, therefore, patiently, cap 
in hand, until the laughing girl assured him that he 
had lost nothing, and that the femme de chambre had 
carried itself into the house. 

“ Oh,” said Gus, grinning from ear to ear in relief 
and in amusement, “I thought that was missy’s 
French gal I” Saying which he sprang on to the van 
and drove olf to the stable-yard with a heart at ease. 

Then Bertha turned her eager glance toward the 
direction that the carriages must come from. They 
were coming at last. Mrs. Reynard’s carriage hove 
in sight first, and, as it drew near, Bertha’s eager eyes 
detected the figures of three persons only, — her aunt, 
her cousin, and Mr. James Reynard, who had accom- 
panied the travelers home from Europe. The driver 
drew rein, and the nice young man, who had come 
home polished to the superlative degree of niceness, 
sprang lightly down, and held out a daintily-gloved 
hand to assist the ladies in alighting. 

Mrs. Reynard descended first, pale, cold, and stately. 
She greeted Bertha with a little frozen kiss, and passed 
on into the house. 

Then a butterfly fluttered to the ground, — a gorgeous 


188 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


butterfly, — in high-heeled, tasseled boots, skirts of 
fashionable brevity, huge ribbons that couldn’t flutter 
if they would for very richness and heaviness, a won- 
derful suit of hair, surmounted by a still more won- 
derful hat, which maintained an almost perfectly per- 
pendicular position, with no visible support but the 
bridge of the butterfly’s nose, which was the greatest 
wonder of all. 

All these items Bertha’s quick and wondering glance 
took in in a marvelously short space of time ; then 
the butterfly stood on tiptoe and offered her cheek 
French fashion to her cousin to be kissed, saying, — 

“And this is Berthe (Bairt), my pretty Cousine 
Berthe; I am so charmed, ma chere, to see you once 
more.” This in a patronizing voice, that suggested 
twenty-five years of seniority on the part of the but- 
terfly. 

“And this is Cousin Helen,” replied “Bairt,” 
hardly knowing whether to cry or to laugh. 

“ ‘ Helene,’ my dear Berthe, if you please, — my ears 
have grown so unused to that good old-fashioned name 
‘ Helen’ that I do not intend letting any one fasten it 
upon me again ; so ‘Helene,’ if you please, ‘ Helene.’ ” 

Bertha was quite decided by this time as to what 
she should like to do, — she should like to enjoy a 
hearty laugh ; but good manners forbade, so she only 
smiled polite acquiescence. 

“ And, Susanne ?” inquired Mademoiselle Helhne, 
“ she has arrived, I presume ?” 

“Your ‘fam-shom,’ as Gus calls her ?” said Bertha, 
with a merry twinkle in her eye. “ Yes, she is here ; 
# and oh ! cousin, I’m so glad she has so sensible a name 
as ‘ Susan.’ I was fully prepared for ‘ Hosalie,’ or 
‘Natalie,’ or ‘Annette,’ or ‘Jeannette,’ which, I be- 
lieve, is a standard name for French nursery-maids 
and grizettes ; but ‘ Susan,’ — anybody can say that ; 
oh, it’s quite a relief!” said malicious Bairt. 

“ Susanne, my dear Berthe, if you please, — the ac- 
cent on the last syllable, if you please. But let us 


MADEMOISELLE HELENE BARROW. 


move on into the house,” said this highly-accented 
young female. 

“ Oh, I want to wait for Ralph,” said Bertha, hon- 
estly. I see the dog-cart coming now ; but how 
slowly ! One would imagine somebody was sick in 
it,” she continued, looking anxiously at the advancing 
vehicle. 

“No, there is no one sick. There’s no one in the 
dog-cart but Papa Reynard and Ralph ; and Ralph, as 
usual, is under the influence of liquor,” said Helen, 
coarsely and carelessly. 

“What!” exclaimed Bertha, recoiling with horror, 
“Ralph, my Cousin Ralph, a drunkard!” 

“ What a fine tragedy queen you would make !” said 
Helen, with a touch of her mother’s cool insolence. “I 
don’t know that because a young man of wealth and 
fashion chooses to indulge occasionally to excess he 
need be called a drunkard.” 

“But, Helen, you said ‘as usual.’” 

“ Possibly, — I am not in the habit of weighing and 
pruning my words before giving them utterance ; come, 

Mr. Reynard, we will go into the house.” 

Bertha stood alone waiting for the advancing ve- 
hicle. “As I feared,” she murmured; “they have 
educated all the soul out of her, polished her heart 
into a rock. Oh, Ralph ! am I to be so bitterly dis- 
appointed in you too ? will you come mincing and 
mowing at me with your French nonsense, not even 
recollecting your own name, or being able to pronounce 
mine ?” 

The dog-cart stopped, and Dr. Reynard, alighting 
first, turned to help his stepson from the vehicle. Bertha ^ 
stood in the large gateway, looking on in pale-faced 
wonderment. 

Could that decrepit-looking feeble man, whose com- 
plexion was waxen and yellow, whose dim eyes were 
sunken far back in his head, whose hands trembled 
like an old man’s when he extended them to his step- 
father for assistance, be her Cousin Ralph ? — the brave, 

It 


190 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES, 


dashing boy who had left his home buoyant with hope 
and bounding with health, — was that Ralph ? Could 
it be him ? Could drink have done it ? 

She sprang toward the two men with outstretched 
hands. 

Ralph, seeing a young lady in front of him, instinct- 
ively raised his hat and made her a courteous bow. 

“ Oh, Ralph I Ralph !” cried Bertha, in a voice 
choked with sobs, “don’t you know me? It is I, 
Bertha, Ralph dear, your Cousin Bertha, that loves 
you so dearly.” And she placed her two little hands 
upon the young man’s shoulders and compelled him to 
look her in the fa;ce. The light of a loving recognition 
came into Ralph Barrow’s dull, sunken eyes. He was 
evidently struggling with memory. “It is Bertha, 
Ralph,” repeated the young girl, softly, fixing his eye 
with a steady glance. “ Cousin Bertha, who loves 
you. Don’t you know me ?” 

“Know Cousin Bertha? My little Bertha? Yes, 
God bless her. Certainly I know her ; who says I 
don’t, sir?” And the broken boy clasped his cousin in 
a feeble embrace, and pressed his white lips to her 
fresh, rosy ones. 

Dr. Reynard, who was watching this scene curi- 
ously, made a mental memorandum : 

“ She is the one who could most readily influence 
him. Her voice has done more toward arousing mem- 
ory than any he has heard since his return. She is to 
be kept away from 

Disengaging herself from his arms, Bertha drew one 
of his trembling hands through her arm, and thus the 
two proceeded toward the house, the feeble, tottering 
man leaning on the strong, brave girl for support. 
Helen watched their advance from the window of her 
mother’s bedroom. 

“ Bertha has gotten over her horror of the drunkard 
with wonderful rapidity,” she said, with a sneer. 

Mrs. Reynard replied never a word ; she was think- 
ing 1 


THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


191 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 

The household at Aland was assuredly composed 
of the most incongruous elements that were ever 
brought together within the circumscribed limits of 
one family. 

We have all seen the “ happy family” in the menag- 
eries, consisting of an Angora cat, a dog, a monkey, a 
couple of birds, and some white mice, all living together, 
in perfect amity, in one cage, and treating each other 
with the most distinguished courtesy. So much for 
training and civilization. 

The Aland cage contained a couple of foxes that 
answered to the names of John and James respect- 
ively ; a vain and stately peafowl, who consorted lov- 
ingly with the elder of the foxes ; a gorgeous foreign 
butterfly, known in its chrysalis state as “ Helen,” but 
more recently as Helene Barrow ; a tender little ring- 
dove called Bertha, and a tigerish woman, from whose 
passionate soul all that was trusting and bright had 
been swept away by one dark, irremediable step, which 
had left her sly, watchful, and suspicious. 

But see again what training and civilization can do. 
The foxes, and the peafowl, and the butterfly, and the 
ringdove, and the tigress all lived together in perfect 
amity in one cage and treated each other with the 
most distinguished courtesy. The fox called the pea- 
fowl “my dear, and my love,” and the peafowl ac- 
corded him, in return, the most unquestioning submis- 
sion. The tigress trembled in the presence of the fox, 
but was politely deferential to the peafowl, who, in 
her turn, treated the tigress with chilling courtesy. 
The butterfly hovered lovingly around the elder fox. 


192 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


but treated the younger one with the capricious kind- 
ness of an accomplished coquette, luring him on with 
airs and graces when sullen despair took possession of 
him, and then fluttering out of reach when he threat- 
ened an advance ; while my pretty ringdove, gentle and 
cheerful as ever, went her own way in their midst, to 
all seeming placid and care-free, but her loving heart 
was uttering a voiceless lament for its chosen mate, 
that had come back to her bruised and wounded nigh 
unto death. 

Bertha Lombard — to drop metaphor — was too gen- 
uinely unselfish, and was, withal, too pre-eminently 
qualified for a ministering angel, to shrink away from 
her unfortunate cousin’s side. She saw his helpless- 
ness, she knew not what had brought him to so miser- 
able a condition, she knew only that he needed kind- 
ness and gentle treatment, and from her he should 
have them, if from none other in the household. 

Helen’s treatment of her brother filled Bertha with 
astonishment and indignation. It was a mixture of 
indifference, contempt, and aversion. 

He came to her one morning soon after his arrival 
at home, and essayed to put his arms around her. She 
pushed him pettishly from her, and raised her hands 
to smooth her crumpled collar. 

“ Helen, how can you ?” exclaimed Bertha, indig- 
nantly. 

“ How can I ?” exclaimed the spoiled girl, willfully. 
“Do you suppose, Bertha, I want a boy who has 
brought himself almost to a state of imbecility by the 
most disgraceful excesses to be caressing me forever ? 
No, thanks, Ralph is not the brother I used to love. It 
makes my flesh creep to have his clammy arms round 
me.” 

Bertha turned to look at Ralph, who, upon his sister’s 
repulse, had thrown himself upon a sofa. She hoped 
he had not understood the cruel words. But his mind 
was only partially clouded, and it was evident his sis- 
ter’s bitter words and angry looks had conveyed some 


THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


193 


meaning to his poor, bewildered brain, for he bowed 
his head upon his two hands, and sat there a perfect 
picture of pain and mortification. 

“ My poor cousin I” said Bertha, tenderly, going up 
to him and laying her soft hand upon his bowed head. 
“ Come, Ralph, you promised me to take a long walk.” 
Together they passed from the room ; for Ralph was 
always docilely obedient to any request coming from 
his Cousin Bertha. 

Bertha had constituted herself his constant com- 
panion. She was conscious that she had great influ- 
ence with him, and she hoped by winning him from 
his brooding ways, by talking to him incessantly of 
their childish past, and by keeping from him all stimu- 
lating drinks, she could restore him to himself. 

If the young girl had been allowed to carry out her 
simple and loving regime for her cousin’s restoration, 
she might have accomplished the desired object ; but 
it was only apparent acquiescence that Dr. Reynard 
granted to her earnest request to “ let her experiment 
on Ralph.” 

Ralph Barrow, as he was, was harmless enough, for 
he was utterly incapable of taking command of his 
estates. Ralph Barrow restored to reason would be 
an unpleasant member of the household and a disa- 
greeable customer in business. Therefore Ralph Bar- 
row had best remain as he was. 

Bertha longed earnestly to know everything con- 
nected with Ralph’s infirmity. She wanted to know 
how it began, what had produced it, what the Eu- 
ropean physicians said about it, everything about him 
she wanted to know, so that she could base her own 
operations on the plan most likely to insure success. 

All the bright dreams she had dreamed of the happy 
life she and Helen and Ralph were to have led together 
at Aland had flown, and the mocking reality of Helen’s 
frivolity and Ralph’s almost imbecility stared her in 
the face in their stead. 


194 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


As her mother would have done before her, she 
bravely buckled to the task of bettering that which 
was still in some degree remediable, and strove cheer- 
fully to accept that which was not. 

Ralph’s condition she believed to be among the 
former, if somebody would only help her to the remedy. 

She shrank from asking her Aunt Agnes what she 
thought of her son’s condition ; for, since bringing him 
home, Bertha had not heard her aunt mention his 
name to a third party. She treated the poor boy him- 
self with cold, even kindness, leaving him nothing to 
desire in the way of personal comfort, but never striv- 
ing to win him to talk to her, or bestowing on him 
any visible sign of affection. 

In fact, Mrs. Reynard seemed to feel outraged 
against her son. He had brought discredit upon him- 
self and upon her. She- had sent him to Europe, ex- 
pecting him to come back and overawe all her ac- 
quaintances with his splendid acquirements and elegant 
polish. He had come home a miserable, attenuated 
wreck of a man, with no acquirements and almost 
needing a keeper. She had expected to be proud of 
him, and he had compelled her to feel ashamed of him. 
She resented this, and she showed her resentment by 
treating him with the most repellant coolness. She 
rarely spoke to him, she never spoke of him, so Bertha 
knew that her questions about Ralph would meet with 
no favor there. 

She must talk to Hr. Reynard, was her conclusion. 
But she found this much easier in theory than in prac- 
tice. She never had grown quite familiar with her 
uncle-in-law. In fact, I think there was a natural an- 
tagonism between Bertha’s pure and fearless soul and 
the crafty, dark nature of John Reynard. There was 
a little, quaint air of reserve about her when she was 
compelled to address him which was never otherwise 
noticeable. He noticed it, and she was conscious of 
it. He set it down to the natural awe inspired in a 
young and timid girl by the superiority of his charac- 


THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


195 


ter and the dignity of his manners. She, if she had 
been compelled to put it into words, would probably 
have resolved it into the old rhyme, — 


“I do not like you, Dr. Fell, 

The reason why I cannot tell; 

But only this I know full well, 

I do not like you, Dr. Fell.” 

But Ralph’s condition made the matter of likes and 
dislikes of minor importance ; so she boldly accosted 
him one morning as she was coming from the garden 
with a basket of flowers, and saw him standing on the 
veranda, with his hands in his pockets, gazing out 
idly and complacently over the lordly domain of which 
he was still — thanks to chance — temporary monarch. 

“Uncle John,” began Bertha, timidly, as she stood 
before him, blushing as red as the monthly roses she 
held in her basket, “I want to ask you a few ques- 
tions.” 

“ Well, my dear,” said the self-made man, in a tone 
of kind encouragement. 

“ They are all about Cousin Ralph,” said Bertha, 
pausing again. 

“Well, my dear,” not quite so kindly this time. 

“Uncle John, what do you suppose is the cause of 
his strange condition ?” 

“ Drink,” was the laconic reply. 

“ But, Uncle John, other men have drunk to excess 
without producing such strange results.” 

“Possibly,” said the physician; “other men have 
had yellow fever, and cholera, and been shot, and have 
gotten over it, while others, again, have died.” 

Bertha had no answer for this, so she turned from 
cause to consequence. 

“ Do you think it likely to prove permanent. Uncle 
John ?” 

“ My dear Bertha,” replied the physician, blandly, 
“who can tell what is in the future? — we can only 
hope for the best.” 


196 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ But I wanted your opinion,” said the young girl, 
a little impatiently ; “I do not want your hopes, I 
want your thoughts.” 

“My stepson has been at home so short a time,” re- 
joined Dr. Reynard, “ that it is impossible for me to 
have formed an opinion on his case.” 

“ But what do the European doctors say about it ?” 
continued Bertha, pertinaciously. 

“You will remember,” said Dr. Reynard, coldly, 
“ that I did not go to Europe with my wife ; and, as 
it is naturally a subject from which Mrs. Reynard 
shrinks, I have asked her as few questions as possible, 
preferring to wait for the development of symptoms, 
and then to treat according to my own judgment. Your 
flowers will wilt, my dear, if you do not place them in 
water immediately.” 

Bertha accepted this neatly-conveyed dismissal, and 
passed on into the house with her flowers, feeling con- 
vinced that she had extracted from her uncle-in-law all 
that he intended she should extract on the subject of 
his stepson. 

“ I will try Helen,” murmured the devoted cousin. 
Then Bertha stooped to a little bit of stratagem ; but 
I am Jesuitical enough to think that the end justified 
the means in this case. 

She made a portion of the flowers she had intended 
for the parlor vases up into a pretty bouquet, and went 
with it to Miss Barrow’s room. A little affected 
“entrez” was returned in answer to her knock, for no 
one on the premises dared enter the sacred precincts 
of Mademoiselle Helene’s chamber without a pre- 
liminary knock. 

“ Ah ! is it you, Bertha ? I thought it was Susanne.” 
Miss Barro# was sitting in her dressing-gown, swing- 
ing her little slippered feet backward and forward im- 
patiently, for she was waiting for Susanne to come 
and comb her hair, and Susanne was daring to keep 
her waiting; and her little royal highness was waxing 
wroth in consequence. 


THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


19Y 


it is only I,” said Bertha, placing herself 
meekly below Susanne in point of importance. “ See I 
I have brought you some flowers, cousin, for your 
vase.” 

“Thanks,” said Miss Barrow, indifferently. “I do 
wish Susanne would come !” 

“ Where has'she gone?” asked Bertha, sympathizing 
with the troubles of a young lady who had to sit full 
five minutes in a cushioned rocking-chair, waiting for 
a dilatory maid to come dress her hair. 

“ She has gone for my coffee,” replied Helen, in a 
peevish voice. 

“It is early yet,” said Bertha, “and I expect she 
found none dripped. You know aunt always likes her 
coffee very hot, and Richard drips it late.” 

“ But Richard knows I must have my coffee before 
breakfast; he knows I cannot live without it. At Aunt 
Yerzenay’s my coffee was always brought to me in 
bed ; but people do not know how to live in this coun- 
try, — they know nothing, they have nothing. Why, 
Aunt Verzenay’s servants’ houses are handsomer than 
this old shell. We don’t live in this country, we 
breathe, we vegetate only.” And Miss Barrow gave 
such a violent swing to her right foot that the little 
embroidered slipper fell to the ground. 

Bertha glanced in genuine amusement at the young 
lady who was vegetating in a silk-faced cashmere 
morning-gown and embroidered slippers, and longed 
to say something saucy, but she had an object to gain 
and could not afford to be sarcastic. 

“ Let me comb your hair, Helene ; I expect Susanne 
is dripping your coffee herself.” 

That Helene was a neat piece of diplomacy. 

“Thanks,” said her royal highness; “anything is 
better than waiting forever.” 

With this equivocal acceptance of her offer, Bertha 
laid the flowers in a basin of water and went to work 
on Helen’s really beautiful hair. 

“ Cousin,” said Bertha, as her deft little fingers 


198 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


twisted and braided and pinned, “ I want to ask you 
to tell me everything the European doctors said about 
Ralph’s case. I want to know if they think his memory 
will ever be fully restored.” 

“ How do I know, Bertha ?” was the cold reply. “ I 
was not with Ralph, and all I know about his case is 
what I heard Mr. Reynard tell mamma. I know I 
think it perfectly horrible and disgraceful that he 
should have drunk himself into a state of perfect im- 
becility at his time of life. It is shocking, disgusting ! 
If he had been sick now, had brain fever, and lost his 
mind, one could pity him ; but as it is, bah ! I always 
did despise a man who drank.” 

‘‘ Oh, Helen, do not be so harsh ! Help me, cousin, 
to win Ralph back to himself. We can do it, Helen, 
I feel sure ; but not by cold looks nor harsh words. 
He wants kindness and encouragement, cousin.” 

“Mercy, Bertha, how you worry about Ralph I 
He wants nothing, but to be kept from his beloved 
wine bottles, and I think the best plan for us all to 
adopt is to show him that we despise the disgusting 
vice so much that we will have nothing to do with 
him so long as he clings to it. He is disgracing us, 
and I for one will not treat him as if he were an object 
of pity instead of censure.” 

This view of the case was so diametrically opposed 
to Bertha’s own, that she felt instinctively she should 
never be able to convert Helen into a coadjutor in her 
loving plan of regeneration. 

She left Helen’s room none the wiser for her flowers, 
her hair dressing, or her little hypocritical “ Helene.” 

Mr. Reynard was her last resource. She would see 
if he would tell her what advice the foreign physicians 
had given concerning her cousin. 

Obtaining the desired information from this quarter 
would involve one disagreeable necessity, — :a tete-d-tete 
with Mr. James Reynard. 

Now, whereas Bertha’s dislike for Dr. Reynard was 
passive, undefined, almost intangible, her feelings to- 


THE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


199 


ward his brother were decided dislike and active con- 
tempt. She did not like the nice young man. She 
despised his want of manliness, she regarded him con- 
temptuously as a mere parlor pet, only this and no- 
thing more. But if he was the sole possessor of the 
knowledge she was so anxiously seeking from him, she 
must obtain it. 

Chance favored her that very day. She was pass- 
ing along the gallery that skirted the billiard-room, 
later in the evening, and saw through the open door 
that Mr. Beynard was the sole occupant of the room. 
He was knocking the balls about in a listless, aimless 
fashion, more in the vain effort to kill time, apparently, 
than in amusement. 

His twinkling black eyes lighted up with pleased 
surprise as Bertha Lombard’s graceful figure glided 
into the doorway. 

“Mr. Reynard,” she said, promptly, “ I wish a few 
words with you, please.” 

“ Certainly, my dear Miss Bertha.” And, dropping 
his cue with alacrity, he advanced toward where she 
was standing. 

Bertha, however, came forward into the room, and 
coolly seated herself on a sofa. 

Mr. Reynard seated himself beside her on the same 
sofa. 

“ I want to ask you,” said Bertha, going straight 
to the point, “to tell me, word for word, what the 
French physicians say about my Cousin Ralph’s con- 
dition.” 

Mr. Reynard’s face fell a little. 

“ Well, a — my dear Miss Lombard, I hardly know 
whether I can remember so minutely as you desire.” 

“ Did they think this” — Bertha dreaded the word 
“ lunacy” — “ did they think he might recover ?” 

The face upraised to James Reynard’s was so sweet 
in its earnest pleading that he could not answer her 
with a lie. 

“ They thought he might recover, if” — he checked 


200 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


himself. How far mieht he be acting against orders 
in telling the truth ? How far might he be endanger- 
ing his own prospects by interfering with his brother’s ? 
He would like to gratify the beautiful girl who was 
hanging so on his next words ; but Bertha’s gratifica- 
tion weighed lightly in the balance against John’s 
wrath. He gave his unolfending moustache a fierce 
twist, and stared helplessly out the window over Ber- 
tha’s head. You see, he was a villain, but such a poor, 
wishy-washy one that he made but an unserviceable 
tool. 

If what?” said Bertha, with eager impatience. 

“ Hang it, Miss Lombard,” said the nice young 
man, springing to his feet in an agony of perplexity, 
“ I’ve had a deuced hard time with that young man in 
Europe, and was in hopes I would be entirely relieved 
of him when I’d got him safe home, but now here you 
want me to go and tell you everything that every 
doctor in France thinks about him.” 

Bertha looked at him with her brown eyes full of 
contemptuous surprise ; a scornful little smile curled 
her lip as she answered, “Your querulous impatience 
strikes me as being entirely uncalled for, Mr. Reynard. 
Excuse me for thinking I could expect any sympathy 
or aid from you. I had thought your connection with 
the family might have inspired you with a slight in- 
terest in my unfortunate cousin. I beg pardon for 
having bored you with so annoying a subject.” She 
rose and moved toward the door. 

“ Stop, Miss Bertha, a moment, please.” “ Hang 
it,” was his mental exclamation, “ anything but seeing 
such visible scorn in those glorious brown eyes.” 

Bertha paused and turned toward him. She was 
utterly at a loss to understand his evident hesitation. 
Why should he be so reluctant to tell her what she 
wanted to know ? Why had he started to tell her, 
and then checked himself so abruptly ? Why did he 
stand there now, with doubt and perplexity united so 
plainly in his face ? 


TEE ALAND HOUSEHOLD. 


201 


Her wonderment found expression. 

“ Why should you hesitate to tell me what they 
said, Mr. Reynard ? I cannot understand your strange 
hesitation. Are the conditions on which he can be 
restored such difficult ones to comply with that you 
will not raise hopes you know will come to naught? 
Ah, do tell me, please ; tell me all, everything, for, oh I 
Mr. Reynard, I love my Cousin Ralph. I love him 
better than I do anything on earth ; he was my only 
playmate in childhood, he is the only person living 
who feels for me anything kinder than cold endurance. 
If there is anything that human love and human ex- 
ertions can accomplish to restore him to the old-time 
Ralph, tell me of it, in the name of mercy, and let me 
try to help him !” 

It was not in James Reynard to listen unmoved to 
such an appeal, while a pair of soft brown eyes, dewy 
with unshed tears, were gazing right into his own. 

He spoke hurriedly, and as if afraid of being over- 
heard, — 

“Keep strong drink from him, give him cheerful 
society, prevent any angering or annoying excite- 
ments, and he will recover. All the physicians agreed 
that it was but temporary. Will that do ? I’ve nothing 
more to tell you.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! thank you so much for the hope 
your last words give me I” 

She held out a little white hand, which James Rey- 
nard clasped, and considered himself amply repaid for 
having risked John’s probable wrath. As they stood 
thus, Bertha, with grateful eyes fixed on the young 
man, and he gazing with evident admiration at her 
beautiful, animated face, they were both startled by a 
mocking voice from the doorway. 

“ Ah ! excuse me. I had no idea I should be inter- 
rupting a tete-d4ete in the billiard-room.” Helen stood 
in the door, looking fresh and stylish in a bewitching 
Parisian costume, but her bright face wore a frown of 
jealous pique. 


202 


DEAD MEETS SHOES. 


Bertha laughed lightly, “Oh, come in, pray ; you 
' are perfectly welcome to hear the subject of the tUe- 
drtUe you have disturbed.’’ 

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Mr. Reynard, un- 
guardedly. 

Both the girls bestowed upon him a look of ques- 
tioning surprise ; then Miss Barrow, with an airy toss 
of her head, disappeared as suddenly as she had ap- 
peared. 

“May I ask,” said Bertha, very coldly, “why you 
desire to give an air of secrecy to this meeting of 
ours ?” 

He could not tell her that his whole future chance 
of happiness rested upon his brother’s being kept in 
ignorance of his double dealing, for that would lead 
to some questions on her part which he would find it 
very difficult to answer satisfactorily, so he had to 
patch it up as best he might. He assumed an air of 
frank candor which was admirably well calculated to 
allay the tardily-aroused suspicions of an unsuspicious 
nature. 

“ I will tell you plainly. Miss Bertha, why I do not 
wish what has transpired between us to be known to 
the rest of the family. I have acted in direct opposi- 
tion to Dr. Reynard’s expressed wishes in telling you 
the opinion of the French physicians. He is a physi- 
cian himself, of no mean order, and he entertains an 
entirely different opinion of your cousin’s case, and of 
the treatment necessary for him. And not wishing to 
have hopes raised in Mrs. Reynard’s bosom which he 
feels convinced will end in disappointment, he desired 
me to say as little as possible on the subject to any 
one. He says, truly, that suppressing the opinion of 
the French physicians cannot retard Ralph’s recovery 
by one hour, whereas repeating it will only raise 
hopes that cannot be realized. You now understand 
my previous hesitation. Your evident distress led me 
to break a solemn promise given to my brother, and if 
the subject of this interview becomes known to him, 


A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. 203 

he will be seriously offended with me, and, although 
it may sound childish, John’s anger is a thing I have 
never yet learned to brave without flinching,” 

The explanation was rather lame, but Bertha ac- 
cepted it for truth, merely rewarding the young man’s 
candor with a slight accession of the genuine contempt 
she had previously entertained for him. 

“ But Helen ?” said Bertha, with an air of annoy- 
ance. 

“ Oh, I can make it all right with her,” said Mr. 
Reynard, with an air of conceited complacency. “ The 
little witch has just gone away in pouty jealousy.” 

“ Jealousy !” repeated Bertha, opening her brown 
eyes to their fullest extent. “ You don’t suppose 
Helen could be so foolish as to fancy there was any 
possibility of a lover’s tete-d-tete between you and me, 
do you ? I have a better opinion than that of my 
cousin’s judgment.” And the quiet scorn in her voice 
was equal to half a dozen exclamation points. 

James Reynard’s air of conceited complacency 
merged itself rapidly into one of blank confusion, he 
felt himself growing visibly smaller, and continued to 
diminish in size, until Miss Lombard’s sweeping train 
and flashing eyes were lost to view. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. 

Composed, as I have said, of such very incongruous 
elements, life at Aland was not of the very gayest. 
Helen missed the brilliant gayeties of her Aunt Yer- 
zenay’s French chateau, and visited her ennui and 
splee'n on the whole household, exclusive of her step- 
father : to him she was always bright, pleasant, and 
winning, in return for which her lightest wish was 


204 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


sacred in his eyes, and nothing left undone to render 
life on the plantation endurable to her. 

They had returned from Europe early in the spring, 
and as Ralph’s condition interfered with their usual 
summer migration, she had the whole season in which 
to torment herself and others before it would be “ the 
thing” to pay a visit to New Orleans. Horseback 
riding, croquet, and flirting with Mr. Reynard and the 
few beaux the sparsely-settled neighborhood afforded, 
were her sole occupations. 

The evenings at Aland were the pleasantest portion 
of the day, for they were enlivened by the most beau- 
tiful music, both instrumental and vocal, from Bertha, 
whose rare talents Miss Chevreul had cultivated in 
the most artistic manner. Bertha hoped by this gift 
to accomplish much for her Cousin Ralph. She re- 
membered in the happy days gone by, how she and 
Ralph and Helen used to dance merrily to the old- 
fashioned tunes her dear mother would play so un- 
tiringly for them, on the little cracked piano, in the 
dingy old parlor at Tanglewood. She remembered 
how, when they stopped from very exhaustion, her 
mother would glide from the merry dance music into 
the sweetest of old ballads, while three little forms 
would cluster close around her, and listen in rapt 
silence until the beloved singer would stop, and giving 
three impartial kisses to three pure little mouths, she 
would send them all off to bed. She remembered each 
one’s favorite. Helen’s had been “ The May,Queen,” 
her own, Sleeping I Dreamed, Love,” and Ralph’s, 
“ Logie o’ Buchan,” a simple selection from a simple 
repertoire, but very sweetly they had sounded then to 
the untutored ears of her cousins and herself. 

She noticed, in her efforts to induce Ralph to talk, a 
strange disinclination to speak of his life abroad ; he 
would tell her nothing of his travels, would tell her 
“ he knew nothing about France or Paris,” would grow 
pettish if she persisted in questioning him, but would 
always betray a certain degree of interest if she went 


A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. 


205 


back to the old life before their separation. Would 
sometimes, in his worst moments, seem not to recog- 
nize in the beautiful young lady before him, the Cousin 
Bertha of his childish love, and would then talk to her 
constantly and tenderly of the dear little cousin to 
whom he was going back soon ; “ For you know,” he 
would say, “I love little Bertha dearly, and when I 
come of age, she is to be my wife, and we are to live 
at the old plantation and be so happy, so happy. 
YouVe never seen my Cousin Bertha, have you, miss ? 
She has eyes like yours, big brown eyes, soft and gen- 
tle, but she’s a tiny little morsel, and you are tall and 
graceful.” v 

Then the tears would come into Bertha’s eyes to 
think that antid the wreck of all other memories her 
image had remained true and undimmed in her poor 
cousin’s clouded mind. While all other loves had 
been wiped from otf the tablets of his heart, affection 
for herself still maintained its hold upon him. This 
knowledge naturally made the shattered boy all the 
more dear to her. 

She would often entice him to a seat near the piano 
of an evening, and play tune after tune, — sometimes 
gay, sometimes sad, — interspersing them with sweetly- 
sung ballads, — some new and others again old. 

Ralph would always listen to her in motionless at 
tention, but rarely rewarded her by any comment, or 
betrayed sufficient interest to ask for any more when 
she stopped. Sometimes he would seem to weary 
while she was in the middle of a tune, and, getting 
up from his seat, without a word of explanation or 
apology, would silently leave the room and go to his 
own apartments. And Bertha would quietly finish 
the piece, and then get up and close the instrument 
with a little sigh of disappointment. 

She was often discouraged but never despaired, still 
persevering in the same plan. 

It was about a month after the return of the heir of 
Aland that a little incident occurred which sent Bertha 
18 * 


206 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


to bed with a heart bounding with hope and set Dr. 
Reynard to scheming afresh. 

The family were all collected in the large drawing- 
room. Mrs. Reynard dozing in her arm-chair, with the 
book she had essayed to read lying on its face on her 
lap ; Dr. Reynard apparently deeply immersed in his 
newspaper ; Helen and Mr. Reynard settling one of 
their daily quarrels in whispers in one of the window 
seats, and Bertha, as usual, at the piano, with Ralph 
near her in his large arm-chair, his nerveless hands 
folded loosely across his breast, his head resting against 
the back of the chair, and his dim, listless eyes fixed 
apparently on vacancy. 

Bertha had been playing a succession of lively airs, 
without gaining one smile of approbation from the 
vacant face so near her. Finally she struck a few pre- 
paratory chords, and then began singing that sweetest 
of all sweet little Scotch airs, “ Logie o’ Buchan.” At 
the close of the first stanza her cousin raised himself 
into a sitting posture, clasped his hands more firmly 
over his breast, and leaned forward in an attitude of 
eager attention. Motionless he remained until the last 
words were sung ; then he exclaimed, in a voice of glad 
recognition, “Aunt Becky’s song! my old favorite!” 

With beating heart and beaming eyes Bertha turned 
swiftly towards him, crying, “ Oh, Ralph dear, at last 
you know it ! Oh, I am so glad, so glad !” 

“ Play it again !” eagerly cried Ralph. 

Bertha turned to play it again, but the joy and agi- 
tation of her long-waited-for reward made her voice 
unsteady, and the song ended in tears. 

Dr. Reynard had been watching this little scene 
from the other end of the long room, and he noted the 
remarkable influence Bertha’s music exercised over his 
stepson with anything but complacent feelings. 

Ralph was certainly more nearly himself this even- 
ing than he had ever yet been since his return, and it 
was undoubtedly owing to the continued efforts his 
cousin made to keep him cheerfully entertained and 


A CJIAJV^G^ FOR THE BETTER. 


20’7 


healthfully occupied. It had been Dr. Reynard’s policy 
to allow this, so long as there were no visible results 
from it; but now'Bertha’s ministration had continued 
just long enough. A change of attendants must be 
appointed, and that forthwith. 

All these thoughts traveled with lightning speed 
through John Reynard’s scheming brain, and he had 
arrived at the above conclusion in the space of time 
between Ralph’s request for a repetition of the song 
and Bertha’s final break down. 

He was watching the young couple furtively over 
the edge of his paper, and when Ralph sprang up at 
sight of Bertha’s tears, ^nd essayed to raise her bowed 
head from her supporting hands, he considered it 
ample time for him to interfere and prevent any more 
affectionate passages between the cousins. He arose 
and moved toward the piano. “ Bertha, my dear,” he 
began in that bland tone of voice which the young girl 
did so heartily dislike, “I am afraid you are agitating 
your cousin beyond his powers of endurance. Re- 
member, we are to avoid all mental excitements for 
him, and although his mind is evidently strengthening, 
it is still far from sound. I think now you had better 
coax him to go to his own apartments.” 

The unfortunate boy winced at the word “coax,” 
and, turning with a look of sullen hatred cast at his 
stepfather, he left the room without a word to any 
one. 

“Oh, Dr. Reynard 1” exclaimed Bertha, reproach- 
fully, “how could you speak that way before him? 
You know nothing enrages him so quickly as to be 
spoken to as if he were a real lunatic. You know he 
is dimly conscious, poor boy, of his infirmity, but sen- 
sible enough to wince at any allusion to it; and yet 
you come here, just at the moment when I had so 
much reason to hope there was a decided change for 
the better, and undo everything I have done by talking 
right before his poor face of ‘ coaxing’ him, as if he 
were a wild beast who had broken his chains. Ah I 


208 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


how could you, — you a physician who ought to know 
so much better 

“ What is all this about ?” exclaimed Mrs. Reynard, 
who had been aroused by the excited tones of Bertha’s 
voice, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in her chair. 

“ It is Berthe,” exclaimed Helen, maliciously, 
“taking papa to task for maltreatment of Ralph’s 
case. She says he is trying to undo everything she 
has done.” 

“ Is that true, Bertha?” asked Mrs. Reynard, in her 
very coldest tones. 

“I leave that question for Helen to answer,” said 
Bertha, sweeping gracefully and proudly from the room. 

James Reynard’s eyes followed her with eager ad- 
miration. “By George,” was his mental exclamation, 
“ what a Juno ! The heiress of Aland would be worth 
sinning for if it was Bertha Lombard instead of this 
pug-nosed monkey !” 

Helen caught the glance which followed her cousin’s 
retreating form. Now, she did not care one fig for Mr. 
James Reynard, but he was an excellent subject to 
practice on, and she did not choose to have him sending 
glances after pretty Bertha Lombard every time she 
entered or quitted the room. 

“ What are you thinking about ?” she asked, ab- 
ruptly, just as he had mentally pronounced herself a 
pug-nosed monkey and Bertha a Juno. 

“I was thinking,” replied he, promptly, “what a 
little spitfire your cousin was!” 

“ You seem to admire spitfires ?” 

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the young man, with 
affected horror in his little, twinkling eyes. 

Then they returned to the subject they had been dis- 
cussing before the little episode above described had 
occurred to interrupt them. Mr. Reynard was to leave 
for New Orleans soon. It having 'wisely occurred to 
his brother that too much familiarity with Mr. Reynard 
might possibly breed contempt, he had suggested that 
occasional and flying visits hereafter would be in better 


A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. 


209 


taste and more apt to further their ultimate ends than 
domestication in the same house with Helen Barrow ; 
so he was to leave very soon, and was striving earn- 
estly on this night to win from the heiress of Aland 
some token of feeling a little warmer than friendship, — 
something decided which he might hold in terrorem 
over her in case she should prove fractious when he 
tried to bring her to the point. But she was proving 
fractious already, for she would not give him the very 
slightest foundation on which to build the very slight- 
est of hopes. All she would grant him was a pouty 
admission that Aland was stupid enough with him 
there, but would be much worse with him away. 

“ Then you will be glad to see me when I come 
back said her suitor, eagerly. 

“ Of course I shall. I shall be delighted to see any- 
thing or anybody after I have been left alone for months 
with a crazy boy and a vixenish young lady.” 

“ They are not the only members of the house,” said 
Mr. Reynard, laughing at her heartless mention of her 
brother and cousin. 

No, but papa is forever busy, and I might as well 
talk to the refrigerator as to mamma.” 

“ And what about Miss Chevreul ?” 

“Hush I you make cold chills run down my back. 
I always feel as if I ought to talk to her about tomb- 
stones and epitaphs, and sacred-to-memories, if I want 
to entertain her.” 

“ By the way, what does she do here now ? I should 
think your cousin’s education was complete by this 
time.” 

“ It is, but mamma has discovered that she is such a 
beautiful embroiderer, and, besides, is so anxious for 
me to have some one to whom I can talk French, so 
that I shall not lose my Parisian accent, that she won’t 
hear of her leaving, although the poor owl comes to 
her about once every month and tells her she wants to 
leave.” 

“ Helen,” said Mrs. Reynard at this moment, “ it 


210 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


is late. Mr. Reynard will excuse you for this even- 
ing.” 

Mrs. Reynard never lost sight of the proprieties. 
Helen was young yet, and she had no notion ol having 
her throw herself away upon the first man who asked 
for her ; moreover, she had, by no manner of means, 
made up her mind that Mr. Reynard would be the 
most desirable of sons-in-law. Surely, Helen, with 
her attractions and expectations, might look higher 
than a penniless young druggist, if that penniless 
young druggist was a very nice young man and a 
special pet of her own ; but making a generally useful 
attendant of a young man, and accepting him for the 
husband of her only daughter, were two widely-differ- 
ent things. She had long since divined the direction 
Mr. Reynard’s hopes and aspirations were taking. 
She was satisfied as to his feelings, but was not so 
certain regarding Helen’s. Sometimes the girl treated 
him as if she really cared for him ; at others, she 
snubbed him most mercilessly, but, of course, all that 
amounted to nothing. She was a freshly-emancipated 
school-girl, and was entitled to enjoy her freedom in 
any way that best suited her ; and if breaking foolish 
young men’s brittle hearts was any amusement, Helen 
should break them to her own heart’s content. But a 
little flirtation was all she should suffer between them, 
until Helen had seen more of the world, and had a 
larger circle of suitors to choose from. She was to 
make her dehut the coming winter in New Orleans, and 
there was nothing so ruinous to a girl’s prospects as to 
have the report of her engagement precede her as a 
sort of av ant-courier, announcing to all would-be future 
suitors the hopelessness of their cases. Hence her pa- 
rental oversight of the young lady’s tete-d-tetes with her 
husband’s brother, and hence that polite, — “ Helen, it is 
late. Mr. Reynard will excuse you for this evening.” 

Mr. Reynard rose and made his best bow to the two 
ladies as they sweetly bade him “ good-night,” and 
glided gracefully out of his sight. 


A CIIANOE FOR THE WORSE. . 211 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 

The following morning Ralph appeared in the break- 
fast-room, walking with a lighter step and wearing a 
brighter face than he had yet worn since his return. 
It was evident that the pleasant effects of his cousin’s 
music had not yet worn away. 

Poor boy ! the insult from his stepfather, which had 
sent him from the room wearing a dark scowl of hatred, 
was entirely obliterated 'from the dimmed tablets of 
a memory unable to retain fresh impressions, while 
the sweet strains that had so delighted him in the 
childish days of yore had struck upon some deeply- 
hidden chord in the heart that was truer than memory ; 
and it was vibrating yet, as a harp-string still quivers 
with melody when the hand that awaked it to life lies 
motionless in the lap of the player. 

It was as if the dear dead had spoken to him, in old, 
familiar tones, through the mouth of the well-beloved 
quick, bidding him be of good cheer ; and the benign 
message had sunk deep into the boy’s darkened soul, 
soothing, for awhile, at least, its troubled depths. 

Bertha noticed the decided improvement in him with 
beaming eyes, but made no comment ; for, with that 
sweet womanly tact, of which she possessed so gen- 
erous a share, she had never treated her cousin as if 
she were even aware that he was not as others were. 
She drew the happiest auguries from the continuance 
overnight of the good effects from her music, and 
glanced at her Aunt Reynard to see if the grateful 
joy in, her own fond heart was not reflected in that 
lady’s coldly handsome face. 

Ralph had come up behind his mother as she sat at 


212 


D^AD MEN'S SHOES. 

\ 

the head ot ;« taLle, and, placing his hands upon her 
shoulders, ^uad stooped and imprinted a kiss upon her 
dufct; A-; calling her “ his handsome queen-mother” in a 
voice of animated admiration. 

Mrs. Reynard smiled coldly at this unexpected dis- 
play of affection from her son ; and, as he passed on 
to his seat at the table, she remarked to her husband, 
in a voice which implied total deafness or complete un- 
consciousness on Ralph’s part, — 

“ He seems much better this morning ; he is almost 
himself,” while she mentally rejoiced that the time was 
approaching nearer when she could pour out the vials 
of her long pent-up wrath upon the head of the son 
who had so disgraced and disappointed her, with some 
hope of being understood by him. 

“What is she made of?” thought Bertha, as she 
witnessed her aunt’s cool reception of her son’s un- 
usual demonstration. “ She looks like a marble statue. 
I wonder if she really is one ? I wonder if it isn’t 
ice-water instead of blood that courses through her 
veins ? Oh, how could she keep from putting her 
arms around his poor neck and bursting out crying 
right here, and thanking God for the improvement in 
her boy ? I know I want to do it. I know mamma 
would have done it.” Then Bertha remembered that 
she never had seen her aunt cry, and she did not be- 
lieve she ever did thank God for anything. 

Mrs. Reynard and Bertha were not the only two 
who had observed the decided change for the better in 
young Barrow. Dr. Reynard was keenly but furtively 
observant of his every word and action during the 
. meal. A nerveless lassitude, settled melancholy, dis- 
inclination to converse, and almost total loss of memory 
had hitherto been the decided features of the young 
man’s case. 

It was evident that Bertha’s cheerful society was 
arousing in him an interest in what was going on 
around him, and it was equally evident that her music 


A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 


213 


was penetrating the crust that had formed over his 
memory. 

Two more months of Bertha’s ministration and 
Ralph Barrow would be master of himself and of 
Aland. 

In view of the imminence of this catastrophe, it be- 
hooved Dr. Reynard to act promptly. His plan of 
operations was matured before his unconscious victim 
had half finished his first cup of chocolate. For you 
know chocolate is hot and thought is quick. 

It was Miss Lombard’s practice, after her own par- 
ticular duties for the morning had been discharged, to 
accompany her unfortunate cousin in one of those long 
walks which seemed to be the only pleasure he craved 
in his benumbed state. 

A synopsis of those “ particular duties” may serve 
to show that Becky’s child was no pretty, useless 
loiterer on life’s busy highway : 

First of all she fed Blanche, “old Blanche” now, 
the pet of Ralph’s earlier years (the dog whose fancied 
defection to the hated usurper had sent the poor little 
rebel rowing in hot haste across the lake to have his 
troubles tenderly pitied by sympathizing Bertha), and 
attended to her own caged pets, and watered the house- 
plants, which used to be Miss Chevreul’s loving charge, 
and carried her aunt’s orders for the day to the dif- 
ferent members of the household cabinet, and — and 
then she did half a dozen other things which were too 
small to be mentioned or remembered, but which, 
nevertheless, added their mites to the general comfort 
of the household, and were so many units of usefulness 
added to those which went to make up the young girl’s 
sum of life. 

After all these duties were performed, she was ready 
for Ralph, and, arm in arm, the two would pass down 
the avenue of Chinese privet, which led to the gate 
opening on the lake-bank, along whose grass-grown 
shores they would trace their footsteps. 

I know young ladies in novels generally time their 
19 


214 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


walks for the very early morning, when the poetically- 
inclined “ Emmas” can gather “ the rose that had lately 
been washed in the dew,” and “ convey” it to some 
equally poetically-inclined “Mary;” but my Emmas 
and Marys have never yet learned, or rather recovered, 
the lost art of walking in the early morning, without 
coming home in a sadly draggled state, which is sug- 
gestive of anything but roses washed in dew ; and, as 
Miss Bertha Lombard was an exquisitely dainty mor- 
tal about her apparel, and held that cleanliness was 
next to godliness, nothing but the niost urgent neces- 
sity could have induced her to start on a walk until the 
ground was sufficiently dry to insure her neatly-clad 
feet and immaculate skirts from danger. 

Hence the regular hour for her walk with Ralph was 
after breakfast and after her regular morning cares were 
disposed of; so she need have no call to hurry home 
until Ralph chose to come himself. 

It was a lovely June morning, this morning of which 
I am writing, and whether it was the loveliness of the 
morning, or else the fact that it was the last of such 
rambles that she and her cousin were destined to take 
together, that impressed every incident of that walk 
upon Bertha’s memory, I know not. I only know that 
they were so impressed. 

It was a bright June morning, — one of the brightest 
that divine love ever blessed a sinful and a fallen world 
with. Overhead was a sky of bluest blue, flecked 
with swiftly-scudding clouds of whitest white ; and 
the blue and the white were faithfully reproduced in 
the glassy surface of the pretty little lake, save close 
along the bank, where the shadows of the tall trees 
lay cool and dark. A group of spotted cattle had 
waded into the water, disturbing its pure depths with 
their defiling hoofs, and stood there placidly enjoying 
the grateful coolness of the water, utterly unconscious 
that their own sleek bodies and great, calm eyes con- 
tributed no little to the charm of the prospect. But 
we never waste admiration on objects of beauty with 


A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 


215 


which we have been familiar from infancy, and Bertha 
and her cousin sauntered slowly along, sometimes talk- 
ing, sometimes silent, without once coming suflBciently 
out of themselves to take note of nature’s charming 
mood. 

About a mile below the residence at Aland the lake 
narrowed into a mere bayou not more than a hundred 
yards wide. Across this narrow channel the lofty 
trees from either side flung their green shadows, 
making the water cool and dark from side to side. A 
little fishing-skiff lay moored to the gnarled root of a 
water-oak that branched out of the bank, and, espying 
it, Bertha gayly led the way down to it, B,alph follow- 
ing, as he followed her every beck. The two stepped 
into the skiff, and Bertha gently propelled it across 
the channel to the opposite bank. 

“ Come, cousin,” she said, as she made the boat fast 
to a tree on the opposite side, “ this is our old island 
that we used to play Robinson Crusoe on. Don’t you 
remember the little house of twisted branches we wove 
together beneath an old oak-tree? and don’t you re- 
member how Helen and I kept house, and you used to 
go out and hunt for provisions ?” 

“Yes,” said Ralph, — but it was a puzzled sort of 
“yes,” — more as if he were trying to recollect than as 
if he actually did so. 

“Only,” said Bertha, with a light little laugh, “in 
our island there was one Mr. Crusoe and two Misses 
Crusoe. And don’t you remember, Ralphy, how we 
used to hunt mussels along the lake-bank, and make 
believe they were oysters ?” 

“Yes,” said Ralph again, but still dubiously. 

“And, oh I cousin, don’t you remember what re- 
joicing there was in the little twig-house when you 
killed a squirrel and Blanche caught a rabbit and there 
were two birds found in our trap all in one day ? and 
we used to wish so that the lake would get too rough 
for us to get back home, so we could spend the night 
in the woods? But it never did, you know, for dear 


216 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


Uncle Otis used to come after us himself if the wind 
rose the least little bit.” 

“Uncle Otis,” said Ralph, brightening, — “that was 
father, — poor father I” 

But it was no portion of Bertha’s loving plan that 
he should dwell on sad memories ; so she hurried him 
up the bank and into the woods, saying, — 

“ Come on, Ralph ; I think I can go right straight 
to the old tree now where our hut used to stand. Don’t 
you remember how sorry and mad we were when we 
came over here one Saturday morning, and found that 
the cows had swum across, and had traveled right 
straight for our pretty twig-house, and had pulled it 
down and trampled all around the spot, and broken our 
mussel-shells, and trodden on the little box that Helen 
and I had left there, with two dolls in it; and Helen’s 
doll’s legs were broken off, and mine’s nose was mashed 
flat? Oh, Ralphy, don’t you remember?” And she 
looked at him anxiously and yearningly, for she did so 
long for some brighter answer than that monosyllabic 
“yes.” 

They were walking slowly forward as she thus re- 
called reminiscence after reminiscence, until they came 
to a huge persimmon-tree that stood near the path they 
were following. 

“And, oh ! Ralph cousin, you must surely remember 
this persimmon-tree, for it is the very one that Blanche 
‘treed’ little Jake in, and you thought it was a coon, 
and had just picked up a great chunk to throw at him, 
when he yelled out, ‘ It’s me, mars’ Ralphy, — it’s 
Jake, — ’faint no ’coon, leastways, ’t’aint no four-legged 
one.’ ” 

A hearty and familiar laugh from Ralph rewarded 
Bertha’s efforts. 

“Ah, you do remember !” she said, gladly. 

“ Remember ? Yes, certainly I do,” said the young 
man, quickly, who always bitterly resented any hint to 
the effect that his memory was defective. “ Why 
shouldn’t I remember my own dog and Jake ? Poor 


A OI/AJVGF FOR THE WORSE. 


2n 


old Jake! — he is dead now ! — died of cholera. Now, 
then, that’s perfectly correct, isn’t it ?” 

“ Yes,” said Bertha, gently, fearful of displaying 
too much pleasure at this fresh instance of returning 
memory. Now, then, cousin, there is the very oak 
our little hut was built up against, and that green 
mound there, where the dewberry is trailing its feathery 
white festoons, is all that remains of our Robinson 
Crusoe home. Oh, Ralph, Ralph, we were happy in 
those days 1 so happy,. cousin, so happy I” And Bertha, 
the cheerer, the comforter, the strengthener, gave way 
to a fit of uncontrollable emotion. 

“And what is the matter with us now, Bertha?” 
asked the young man, looking pained and puzzled. 
“ Why are we not happy now, Bertha ? Whose fault 
is it ? Who has hurt you, who has angered you, sweet 
cousin? Am I not a man, and cannot I protect my 
dear little Bertha? Who is it, cousin? I can make 
you happy; I’m a man, Bertha, and, though I’ve been 
sick, I’m getting well now, getting well and strong ; 
and, when I’m perfectly well, we are going to be mar- 
ried, little cousin. Come, don’t cry. I’ll marry you, 
you dear little girl !” 

This was the longest and most connected speech 
Bertha had ever yet heard him attempt ; and, although 
it was rambling and foolish, it served to feed her hopes. 

“ Cousin,” she asked, drying her eyes and recover- 
ing her equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it, 
“ypu say you have been sick. Do you know what 
has been the matter with you ?” 

“No,” replied her cousin; “ I’ve been not quite right 
about my head. I’ve been sleepy-headed, and my 
brain has felt as if it was on fire ; but, many and many 
a time when they’ve called me crazy to my face, I’ve 
known what they were saying and what they meant. 
I know they think me crazy, and I know they don’t 
care. They wouldn’t care if I died,” he cried, bitterly. 
“ You’ve been my only friend, little Bertha, and don’t 
cry, darling. I’ll marry you, hang me if I don’t!” 


218 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“Ralph,” said Bertha, coming close up to him, and 
laying her two little hands upon his shoulders, “look 
at me.” 

He looked straight into her glowing brown eyes 
with his dim, faded gray ones. 

“ Ho you love me ?” 

“ Dearly,” said the poor boy, trying to place an arm 
around her waist ; but she held him off and kept a 
steady hold of his eyes with her own. 

“ You say you want to marry me ?” 

“Yes, and I mean to do it. Who can prevent ?” 

“ You must get very much better, Ralphy, before 
we can talk about such a thing ; and now you must 
make me a promise before we go back to the house.” 

“Well.” 

“ Will you do everything and anything I ask you, 
Ralph dear, for your own good, however unpleasant 
it may be ?” 

“ Yes,” was the ready response in words, though I 
doubt whether he fully comprehended the drift of her 
request. 

“ Remember,” and her voice was tenderly apologetic 
for going into a plainer form of speech, — “ remember, if 
you want to do one thing, and I say, ‘Ralph, please 
don’t,’ you promise not to do it; and remember, if you 
refuse to do something which I think is for your good, 
you will do it if I say, ‘Ralph, please do it.’” 

“ Yes, I promise,” said the poor boy, with a kind 
air of condescension which was pathetically ludi- 
crous. 

“ That is all I want at present,” said Bertha, who 
did not want to tire him by making too great a de- 
mand on his weak mind at once. 

Then they retraced their steps slowly and carelessly 
toward the little skiff, as if utterly indifferent as to 
when they should reach their destination. 

They got into the boat, and this time they both sat 
on the same seat, each pulling with a single oar, and 
they laughed merrily when their elbows came in con- 


A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 


219 


tact and jostled the oar out of Ralph’s weak grasp, so 
that Bertha had to scull back as before. Then she chained 
the little skiff to the gnarled trunk of the old oak as she 
had found it ; but they were in no hurry to leave the 
green and shaded nook, so they sat there, dabbling their 
hands in the cool water like children, as they were, and 
Ralph reached after the great round flags of the manorca 
nut that were floating all around about them, and car- 
peted the floor of the little boat with them, and the 
water splashed gently up against the sides of the little 
craft as the motion of his body made it rock to and 
fro, and a huge, shining trout leapt high up from the 
water, its glittering coat of mail flashing in the bright 
sunlight, then dropped again into its watery bed ; and 
a gaunt, awkward white crane, that was mincing along 
the water’s edge, fishing for its dinner, stood medita- 
tively on one leg looking at the spot where the glisten- 
ing fish had disappeared, as if wishing, sorrowfully, 
that the trout had been a minnow or himself a cormo- 
rant. 

Oh, foolish, foolish crane ! why not take example of 
thy betters, and be satisfied in that sphere of life which 
it hath pleased God to call thee ? 

The peaceful calm of this quiet scene was contagious, 
for when, finally, Bertha suggested that it was almost 
noonday, Ralph looked up at her with a glance of lov- 
ing tenderness as he said, in a voice nearly as soft as 
her own, — 

“ This has been a happy morning, darling cousin, — 
a very, very happy one. Let us come again, Bertha ; 
I like this place.” 

“To-morrow, Ralph dear, and just as often after- 
ward as you wish.” 

Then the strong girl sprang lightly on to the shore, 
and held out her hand to assist the feeble boy in landing. 
It was high noon when they reached the house, and, 
as was Ralph’s custom, he passed straight on to his 
own apartments, where he generally rested after his 
walk for an hour or two, taking a nap or smoking. 


220 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES, 


after which he usually paid a visit to his mother in her 
own room. 

His first move on entering his room was toward his 
cigar-box. 

Side by side with it stood a bottle of absinthe, which 
the devil must have placed there during his absence.^ 

As the ill-fated young man raised his eyes to his 
cigar-box, they rested upon the greenish liquor, which 
held such a baleful fascination for him. Like a mad- 
man, he seized upon it, and, drawing the cork with a 
wrench (for the devil had also accommodatingly acted 
as butler for him, and loosened the stopper of the 
bottle), he placed the poison to his lips and took a long 
draught from the bottle. 

His dim eyes glowed with delight; his hands 
trembled with eagerness ; he forgot his intention of 
smoking, and, seating himself in an arm-chair, he kept 
his poor, nerveless hands clasped tightly around the 
liquid hell-fire as if afraid his treasure might escape 
his hold. Thus he sat gloating over the bottle, every 
ODce in awhile imbibing a small quantity of the liquor, 
until the dinner-bell rang. 

He entered the dining-room some few moments after 
the rest of the family were seated, for at the sound of 
the bell he had hunted around eagerly for a good 
hiding-place for his new-found treasure, and had stored 
it away as a miser stores his gold, walking all around 
the spot to see if it could be discovered from any pos- 
sible point of view. 

He seated himself boisterously at the table. His 
face was a fiery crimson, and his eyes glowed like 
balls of fires. His hair, which had not come in con- 
tact with the brush since he had made his toilet that 
morning, was in a sadly disheveled state, and stood up 
in crumpled confusion all over his head. He called for 
a glass of water in a loud and coarse voice, which at- 
tracted the attention of the whole table. 

“ Mamma,” said Helen, pettishly, “ do not you think 
Ralph is becoming more boorish every day ? Cannot 


A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 


221 


you induce him to comb his hair before he comes to 
the table ? Please look at him, — he really takes away 
one’s appetite. I would quite as lieve sit down to the 
table with an Irish ditcher.” 

“ Then, curse you, do it I” exclaimed the infuriated 
youth, who had been glaring at her across the table 
while she was making this speech ; and, leaning for- 
ward, he sent the contents of his glass of water full 
into her face. 

Every one started up aghast I 

“Ralph!” exclaimed Mrs. Reynard, in tones of 
wrathful surprise, “leave the room, sir I” 

But Dr. Reynard’s voice, bland and unctuous, strove 
to pour oil upon the troubled waters. 

“Agnes, my love, speak gently. Remember that 
your poor boy is entirely irresponsible . for his words 
and actions. I doubt whether he even knows what he 
has done.” 

“ I am crazy, am I ?” exclaimed Ralph, foaming at 
the mouth with rage and excitement. And he started 
wildly to his feet, brandishing the carving-knife, which 
he had seized from the table. “ I’m irresponsible, am 
I ? I don’t know what I am doing, don’t I ? Curse 
you ! I know now,” — and he made a fierce thrust at 
his stepfather with the sharp-pointed knife in his hand, 
— “ I know now that I am trying to cut the throat of 
the vilest reptile that crawls the earth ! Curse you I 
I’m not so crazy as you think I am or hope to make 
me.” 

Mrs. Reynard and Helen fled shrieking from the 
apartment. 

James Reynard and his brother advanced cautiously 
toward the maddened boy, who stepped backward step 
by step until he reached the wall, where he stood at 
bay, wildly brandishing his knife. 

Of all the women of the household, Bertha Lom- 
bard alone remained. She would not fly and leave 
him. 

Dr. Reynard kept the half-wild boy’s fury at the 


222 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


highest pitch by talking to him in the soothing style 
one uses to an escaped lunatic. 

White and rigid, Bertha advanced toward him. For 
it cut her to the heart to hear him so addressed. 

“ Ralph,” she said, in as calm a voice as she could 
command, “ do you remember the promise you gave 
me this morning ?” 

But her cousin was too much blinded by passion 
and too much maddened by the fumes of the accursed 
liquor he had been imbibing since that promise had 
been given to heed her gentle voice. 

Then she walked bravely up to him and seized the 
hand which held the knife with both her own. 

“Traitress!” he exclaimed, with a wild oath, as he 
wrenched free the hand that held the knife and dealt 
her a blow across the arm. “ You have joined with 
them against me I” 

The blood spouted from the fair, white arm raised so 
beseechingly toward him ; but the cry of pain that 
Bertha Lombard uttered was more from her wounded 
heart than from the cut upon her arm. 

To think he should call her “traitress!” Ah, how 
it must hurt him to think she, too, had ranked herself 
with his enemies ! 

“ Ralph dear !” she exclaimed, imploringly, “ do not 
think that! — do not think it, dear ! I am frightened 
for you, Ralph ! — for you only, my beloved cousin ! 
Throw down that cruel knife, Ralph ! See ! you’ve 
hurt me with it! — you’ve hurt me,' — your cousin 
Bertha, Ralph, who loves you so dearly !” 

She bared her white arm and held it out, all dripping 
with blood, for him to look upon. 

With a moan of love and sorrow, he dropped the 
knife from his nerveless hand, and stooped to press 
his poor, quivering lips upon the wound. 

As he stood thus, unarmed and unsuspecting, he was 
seized by two pair of cowardly, treacherous arms and 
borne struggling from the room. 

“ Traitress!” he shrieked again, as he struggled be- 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


223 


tween his captors, — “traitress! ^twas a ruse I ’twas a 
ruse to give me over to them I Curse you and curse 
him ! Curse the mother who bore me and the sister 
who taunts me I I curse them all, but above them all 
I curse you, beautiful serpent ! beloved traitress !’’ 

He was borne from Bertha’s presence struggling and 
helpless. 

Sobbing wildly, the wretched girl fled to her own 
room, but, although she buried her head deep in the 
pillows, she could still hear those terrible words, “ I 
curse you above them all, beautiful serpent I beloved 
traitress !” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

A FAMILY COUNCIL. 

Mrs. Reynard, her son, and Bertha Lombard were 
all missing from the breakfast-table on the morning 
succeeding the events related in the last chapter ; Dr. 
Reynard and his brother, Helen, and Miss Chevreul 
forming the contracted and uncongenial circle that met 
round the daintily-spread board. 

Dr. Reynard explained blandly that his stepson was 
still in such an excited state that it had been thought 
best to have a table set in his own apartments, and his 
mother was breakfasting there with him. 

Helen, in return, accounted for Bertha’s absence by 
saying that she was suffering from a violent nervous 
headache, “brought on, I suppose,” she added, “by 
the fright Ralph gave her last night.” 

“By George !” exclaimed Mr. James Reynard, in a 
burst of involuntary admiration, “she is a glorious 
woman! She walked straight up to her cousin last 
night, and seized his arm as fearlessly as if it had been 


224 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


a bunch of roses, instead of a sharp-bladed knife he 
was brandishing so wildly.’^ 

“Quite heroic,” replied John Reynard, noting the 
frown of dissatisfaction which was contracting his 
stepdaughter’s brow, and giving his careless brother a 
quick glance of warning, “ no doubt, but rather melo- 
dramatic. I think our pretty Bertha is rather given to 
effective hits and dramatic poses, etc. etc.” 

“I think,” said Rosine Chevreul, who rarely ever 
spoke unless individually addressed, but finding cour- 
age to defend her slandered favorite, “that Bertha 
Lombard is the last person living who would do any- 
thing for effect only. She is rarely unaffected, and 
purely unselfish.” 

“ Mr. Reynard, I believe you leave us to-day,” said 
Miss Barrow, coolly ignoring Miss Chevreul’s pres- 
ence and turning toward the gentleman addressed. 

“ I am afraid I must tear myself away soon after 
breakfast,” said the nice young man, with a langulsh- 
ingly sentimental look at the young heiress. 

“ So sorry,” drawled Helen, playing idly with her 
coffee-spoon. 

“ If it is a matter of regret to you, what must it be 
to me ?” was the gallant reply. 

“ Quite neat,” replied Miss Barrow, “ very pretty, 
indeed,” in sarcastic allusion to his gallant retort. “ I 
was about to say to you that, possibly, by the time 
you pay your next visit, my ‘ purely unselfish’ cousin 
may have become convinced that the heir of Aland 
will never be in a condition to reward her tender de- 
votion, in which case you may be able to win the 
‘ glorious creature’ yourself. I promise you my very 
best aid in the matter. Au revoir.^^ And, with an 
airy bow, she passed from the breakfast-room, humming 
an operatic air. 

“ I think you had better leave at once,” said John 
Reynard, with a sneer. 

“ I think so, too,” said James Reynard, with a 
frown. 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


225 


And he did leave, without even being able to calch 
a glimpse of the young lady in whose eyes it was a 
heinous offense to express open admiration of any other 
female than Mademoiselle Helene Barrow. 

That day, at eleven o’clock, the whole white house- 
hold at Aland, with the one exception of poor Ralph, 
met in Dr. Reynard’s study in family consultation 
upon the best plan of treatment to adopt toward the 
afflicted young man. 

Dr. Reynard had invited this consultation, and his 
opening address to the little assemblage was truly elo- 
quent and affecting in the extreme. 

Miss Chevreul had been requested to honor them 
with her presence, and had obeyed the summons, won- 
dering why her presence should be considered at all 
necessary. 

Miss Lombard had begged twice to be excused ; 
but when Dr. Reynard sent her word that he desired 
her presence for W cousin’s sake, she had come, look- 
ing white and sorrowful, with great dark circles around 
her eyes, for she had spent a sleepless and miserable 
night. A white bandage encircled the arm that Ralph 
in his mad fury had wounded. 

Helen had the grace to utter some commonplaces 
expressive of regret concerning the occurrence. 

Oh, please don’t speak of it !” said Bertha, the tears 
starting to her eyes ; “ you know he knew not what he 
was doing, and this little cut will hurt him far worse 
than it has ever hurt me when he comes to himself.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Helen, coldly. 

At this moment Dr. Reynard gave a little prepara- 
tory cough, which was meant to claim the attention of 
the group for himself. 

He was seated in a revolving office-chair, upon the 
arms of which his two elbows rested, and the tips of 
his ten fingers tapped each other gently as he prepared 
to give them the benefit of his scientific conclusions 
and sage advice. 

“ I have asked you four ladies to meet me here this 
20 


226 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


morning,” lie began, in a “ fellow-citizens” sort of voice; 
“for, although, as the head of the family and the sole 
male representative of it, with the exception of my un- 
fortunate stepson, I would be perfectly justifiable in 
acting as my own judgment dictates, I prefer leaving 
the decision of the matter in question to those who 
have a prior right to decide upon it. 

“ However painful to me, my dear,” and the office- 
chair made a curve in Mrs. Reynard’s direction, “ to 
communicate such a fact to you, it is my duty to tell 
you plainly that from this time forward I fear we may 
look for the frequent repetition of such scenes as oc- 
curred yesterday at dinner. I have been watching 
Ralph very closely, and I may almost say I was an- 
ticipating just such an outbreak.” (Possible.) 

“Why, then, did he seem so much better. Uncle 
John, on the day and night preceding?” And Bertha 
fixed her great brown eyes eagerly on the physician’s 
face. 

The office-chair described a semicircle toward Ber- 
tha: “The very point, my dear Bertha, to w^hich I 
was coming. It would prove tedious and unprofitable 
to you were I to go into scientific details. I have not 
asked you here to listen to a lecture on mental physio- 
logy, but to invite you to join with us in deciding what 
is best for the boy we all love so well, for your lovely 
devotion to him in his affliction, my dear Bertha, cer- 
tainly entitles you to a voice in this council.” 

“ Bertha has been most kind to my son,” said Mrs. 
Reynard, in gentler tones than usual. And the young 
girl’s eyes filled with tears at this unwonted tribute. 

“ I want you to tell us, my dear niece,” said the 
lecturer in the office-chair, “ exactly how your cousin 
acted during your walk yesterday, from the time you 
left the house until your return.” 

“ You remember,” said Bertha, “ how much he 
seemed affected by the little old song I sang night be- 
fore last. It was Cousin Ralph’s favorite song when 
he was a little boy. Mamma used to sing for us all 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


227 


three.” She was unconsciously addressing* Helen, in- 
stead of Dr. Reynard. “ You remember, cousin, yours 
was the ‘ May Queen’ ?” 

“I remember,” said Helen, softly, for Aunt Becky 
had been dear to her little heart too. 

“ Yes, my dear,” said Dr. Reynard, the least little 
bit impatiently, thus recalling Bertha to the subject in 
hand. 

“Well, I think,” continued the young girl, “that 
that little song aroused his memory more than anything 
we have tried yet, and I believe the good effects of it 
were lingering in his mind all day yesterday, for he 
took much more interest than usual in objects around 
him, and was so gentle and good.” Then she told 
them how he had laughed so naturally when she re- 
called the incident of Blanche treeing Jake, and how 
he had enjoyed the fun of her awkward sculling across 
the bayou, and how he had carpeted the skiff with 
manorca flags, and how he had called it “a happy, 
happy morning,” and begged her to come back there 
again because he liked that place. 

“And oh, it was a happy, happy morning!” added 
poor Bertha, sobbing aloud, “ and I thought it was 
just the first of many more to come, for I hoped it 
meant he was going to get well.” 

“Just as I thought,” said Dr. Reynard, shaking his 
head gravely; “you acted for the best, my dear child, 
but you acted ignorantly.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Bertha, with pained 
surprise in her eyes. 

“ I mean, my dear Bertha, that the strain upon his 
very much weakened brain was too great and kept up 
too* connectedly. Your sweet little song, my dear, 
evidently struck a chord within his memory, and the 
labor of thinking was recommenced in his shattered 
mind. If no other effort to arouse his memory had 
been made for several days, probably the effects of the 
music would have been highly beneficial ; but, in your 
affectionate eagerness, you have undone your own 


228 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


good work, my child. You recalled reminiscence after 
reminiscence, you yourself tell us, and the poor boy, 
seeing what pleasure any sign of recollection on his 
part gave you, — for people in his condition possess a 
wonderful cunning in reading faces, — strove to recall 
the events you alluded to, and overtasked his weak 
brain. Reaction had taken place in the form of the 
violent outbreak we all witnessed yesterday.” 

I do not know how this explanation of Ralph’s con- 
dition would have passed muster if, instead of four 
profoundly ignorant women. Dr. Reynard had been 
addressing four profoundly scientific men ; I only know 
it sounded wonderfully plausible to them, and struck 
consternation into one tender heart in their midst. 

“ Then I did it!” exclaimed Bertha, horror-stricken. 

“ Unintentionally, my dear niece,” said the physician, 
soothingly, — “ unintentionally, we all know, but never- 
theless, I am afraid your injudicious ministrations are 
responsible for the poor boy’s relapse.” 

“ Oh, Ralph, my poor cousin ! you had good cause 
to call me traitress, for I have worked you a terrible 
harm, when I strove to help you.” And she leaned 
her head on the table, near which she was sitting, and 
shed bitter tears of regret for the mischief that she had 
not committed. 

“What we are here for at present, however,” said 
Dr. Reynard, revolving from his niece to his wife, “ is 
not to lament over the past, but to consult about the 
present and prepare for the future. I am afraid, my 
dear Agnes, that, for some time to come, Ralph may 
be in a condition that would not warrant us in allowing 
him full liberty. It would probably be best for us to 
have a consultation held on his case.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Reynard, quickly, “I do not care 
about exposing my trouble to the world. I have entire 
confidence in your ability to manage the case.” 

“Thanks, my love.” And the self-made man ac- 
knowledged the compliment paid him with a courteous 
bow. 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


229 


You would not — a — you would not,” said he, hesi- 
tatingly, — “ you would dislike the idea of a — a private 
asylum, I suppose ?” 

“ It is not to be thought of,” said Mrs. Reynard, with 
a little shiver. It was her pride shivering, not her 
heart. 

“Exactly,” said Dr. Reynard. “ I fully agree with 
you.” And he spoke truth this time, for nothing was 
further from his intentions than letting Ralph Barrow 
out of his sight. “ This, then, is my proposition, my 
love : it is the desire of the household that our dear 
boy should be kept with us, and his infirmities hidden 
from the world in the privacy of his own home, is it 
not?” He paused for an answer. 

“That is my wish,” said Mrs. Reynard. 

“ Ah, yes, yes,” cried Bertha, “ please don’t send 
him away 1” 

“ I am afraid of him,” chimed in Helen, who had no 
notion of being carved up at any moment her brother 
should fall into one of his cannibal moods. 

Bertha looked at her indignantly, and could not for- 
bear saying, — 

“ You goaded him to that outburst.” 

“Papa says you are responsible for it,” rejoined 
Helen, triumphantly, “ and he knows best, I presume.” 

Bertha dropped her head sorrowfully at this cruel 
but unanswerable retort. 

“I propose, then,” repeated Dr. Reynard, “to ap- 
propriate the left wing of the house entirely to Ralph’s 
use. I believe it consists of two bedrooms and the 
small room between the two, which used to be the 
school-room, does it not, my dear ?” 

“ Miss Chevreul occupies one of the rooms in that 
wing,” replied Mrs. Reynard. 

Miss Chevreul seemed to think that this was as pro- 
pitious a moment as any other for preferring a request 
she had to make ; so she spoke without once raising 
her eyes from her lap, in a hurried, confused voice, 
nervously twirling an open letter through her fingers. 

20 * 


230 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ Excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Reynard, 
but I need no longer occupy that apartment, as I have 
here a reply to one of the many letters I have been 
writing in answer to advertisements for teachers. My 
position here is a mere sinecure, and I do not feel justi- 
fied in accepting so generous a salary from you merely 
for doing a little embroidery and keeping up Miss 
Helhne’s music and French. So I think, madame, it 
would be better for me to go.’^ She raised her sad 
brown eyes to Mrs. Reynard’s face with an almost 
imploring look, and somehow the eyes traveled round 
to the man in the office-chair before they fell again to 
the floor. 

“ Of course, mademoiselle, you can do as you deem 
best,” said Mrs. Reynard, very coldly ; “but I think 
I am the best judge as to whether your services are 
worth what I pay for them, and I consider my daugh- 
ter’s French and music of so much importance that if 
you leave I shall have to replace you. You suit me 
in every respect ; we have gotten used to your pres- 
ence about the house, and, under existing circum- 
stances, you can well imagine how extremely disa- 
greeable it would be to me to have an entire stranger 
take your place.” 

“ 1 wish you would try, my dear Agnes,” said Dr. 
Reynard, “to prevail upon Miss Chevreul to relinquish 
her project of taking another situation, for she enters 
largely into my plan for Ralph’s comfortable establish- 
ment in his own suite of apartments.” 

“ I shall certainly endeavor to do so,” said Mrs. 
Reynard, in reply. 

“ I was about to say,” said Dr. Reynard, “ that the 
other two rooms in the left wing might be fitted up for 
your son’s use, — the end room for his bedroom, and 
the small one between him and Miss Chevreul for his 
sitting-room ; and, for the present, my dear, in view 
of the unpleasant occurrence at the table yesterday, if 
you approve, I think it would be best for him to have 
his meals in that apartment.” 


A FAMILY COUNCIL. 


231 


“Alone !” exclaimed Bertha, pityingly. 

“ Certainly not, Bertha,” said Mrs. Reynard, sharply. 
“ Did he eat his breakfast alone this morning ?” 

“ No, my dear love,” said Dr. Reynard, flatteringly ; 
“ but I cannot give you up as a regular thing. The 
charm of our own meal-time would be broken if you 
were not there to grace the head of our table, and, in- 
stead of breakfasting, dining, and supping, we should 
merely feed. Occasionally only can we spare you to 
Ralph for meals.” 

“ Who, then ?” asked Mrs. Reynard. 

Ah, how Bertha longed to hear this autocrat mention 
her own name ! 

“ I was about to propose,” continued Dr. Reynard, 
“that in consideration of the necessity for Ralph’s 
private table. Miss Chevreul be requested to accept 
the position of his especial attendant and companion at 
meal-times.” 

Bertha’s heart and countenance fell. 

“We are told, you know, to avoid all excitement ; 
and association with one so quiet and gentle as my old 
friend Miss Chevreul,” and the office-chair creaked 
toward Rosine, “ must inevitably have a most soothing 
effect.” 

“ Do you consent, mademoiselle ?” asked Mrs. Rey- 
nard, who had not one objection to raise to the pro- 
posed plan. 

“ Let me have time to think, please.” And, rising 
hastily, Rosine Chevreul left the room abruptly. 

“ And may I do nothing for him ?” asked Bertha, 
her voice and lip trembling piteously. 

“ Listen, my dear Bertha : I am sorry to say that 
your poor cousin is still in a state of insane exaspera- 
tion against your unoffending self I asked him this 
morning if he did not wish to take a walk with his 
Cousin Bertha, and he broke out into a fit of the most 
ungovernable rage at the mere mention of your name. 
Am I correct, my love ?” turning to his wife for cor- 
roboration of his statement. 


232 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES, 


“ Perfectly,” said Mrs. Reynard. 

“ Poor cousin !” said Bertha, tenderly ; “ be knows 
not what he is saying.” 

“I think at present, ray dear niece, that your pres- 
ence would do him more harm than good ; but rest as- 
sured so soon as we can win from him any expression 
of a desire on his part to see you, you shall be admitted 
to him.” 

“ Thank you,” said Bertha, dejectedly, for this was 
but sorry comfort to her loving heart; then she, too, 
begged permission to leave the council-chamber, as she 
was suffering still from her head. And she went sadly 
from the room, thinking of how she had promised 
Ralph, only yesterday, to take him back to the spot 
he had taken such a fancy to, and now she and he were 
as entirely separated as if seas were between them in- 
stead of only a few doors and walls. 

While all that time Ralph Barrow was pacing up 
and down his own bedroom, with no one but faithful 
old Dora to keep him company, and with the key of 
the door turned upon them both, calling aloud for 
“ Bertha, my dear Bertha!” Then, when no answer- 
ing footsteps came to his call, he would cry, bitterly, 
as in the night before, “Traitress, traitress! beautiful 
serpent, cruel traitress !” 

With Bertha’s exit the family council was broken 
up ; for although Dr. Reynard had proposed delivering 
a very neat peroration, there was no use delivering it 
for the sole benefit of his wife, who, of course, thought 
just as he did ; nor for Helen, who was only interested 
in having Ralph removed from the table at which her 
own meals were eaten. 

“ You will speak to Miss Chevreul, my love, and try 
to prevail upon her to remain ? — I know she will be 
tender and gentle with your poor boy.” 

“ I shall certainly use my best efforts to induce her 

remain, as she is invaluable.” 

“ Thanks, my love. ” And the council was closed. 


LIFE AT ALAND. 


233 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

LIFE AT ALAND. 

Miss Chevreul was assisted to a decision upon the 
request preferred her in the library by two widely dif- 
fering incidents. The first incident was finding the 
following note upon her mantelpiece on returning from 
her regulation walk. 

Accident had given the master of Aland a hold upon 
her. Fate had thrown her into his pathway at the 
very moment when he was looking about him for a 
tool. He found a useful one in the weak, timid, sin- 
stained woman. But to his note : 

“ Mademoiselle Chevreul, — You are aware that I 
have requested my wife to use her influence in inducing 
you to remain at Aland as special attendant upon her 
son ; but in case you persist in leaving us, I shall take 
great pleasure in writing you a full and satisfactory 
letter of recommendation to your future employers, as 
I know of no one so well able to bear testimony to 
your fitness as a guide for the young and pure. In 
case you should leave without such a letter from me, 
rest assured I shall not neglect your interests, but shall 
send one after you, let your destination be what it may. 
Hoping this may assist you to make up your mind 
more speedily, 

“ I remain your best friend, 

“ J. Reynard.” 

Rosine Chevreul read this note and grew white and 
sick. “A threat,” she murmured. 

.Bertha’s sweet voice, begging admission, broke up 
her most dismal train of thought. Hastily crumpling 


234 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


the note she had been reading, into her pocket, she 
opened the door to the young girl. 

Bertha brought her tear-stained face and pleading 
eyes straight up to the governess, saying, — 

“ Dear Miss Rosine, stay with my darling cousin, 
please. Oh, be good to him ! They will not let me 
do anything for him, and Aunt Reynard is so cold, and 
Helen so heartless, they will freeze him between them. 
But I know you will be kind and gentle with him> I 
know you will try and win him to forgive poor me, for 
the treachery he thinks I have treated him with. Say 
‘yes,’ dear Miss Chevreul, — say it for my sake, if you 
really love me as you say you do.” 

“‘Yes,’ then, let it be, Bertha,” said the storm- 
tossed woman, in a voice of sullen acquiescence. 

She had wanted to go away. Fate had proven too 
powerful for her. 

So, when Mrs. Reynard came to her for her deci- 
sion, she received “ yes” for answer, and returned a 
coldly polite “thank you.” 

Thus the heir of Aland was provided with a keeper, 
— a gentle, patient enough one, who was hardly likely 
to offend her unfortunate charge by any unnecessary 
display of harsh authority, and who was as little likely 
to benefit him in any way, if cheerful society was essen- 
tial to that end. 

Ralph Barrow was no raving maniac ; he was simply 
melancholy mad. His stepfather knew full well the 
cause of that wild outbreak at the dinner-table, but it 
answered his own evil purposes to represent the young 
man as dangerous, and have him treated accordingly. 

In installing Miss Chevreul in her new office, the 
physician had given minute directions, in his wife’s 
presence, as to the course to be pursued with her son. 

“ I think it best, my love,” he had remarked, “that 
all wine should be excluded from Ralph’s table, for 
some time to come at least.” 

And Mrs. Reynard had cordially agreed with him. 

“ But as it might prove debilitating in the extreme. 


LIFE AT ALAND. 


235 


if he were deprived of all stimulant so suddenly, I have 
prepared here, mademoiselle, a tonic, which you will 
please administer to him regularly before meals. It is 
an excellent appetizer.” And he handed Rosine a glass 
bottle containing about a quart of greenish liquor, 
labeled simply “Tonic.” “When that bottle is con- 
sumed, you will please notify me, so that I may pre- 
pare more.” 

Mrs. Reynard thanked her husband warmly for his 
kind thoughtfulness. 

“ Don’t speak of it, my love, — don’t speak of it as a 
kindness. When I married you I promised to be a 
father to your children, and with God’s help I will be.” 

This, when with the devil’s help he had just con- 
cocted a plan to keep Ralph Barrow in the half-imbecile 
state which so effectually prevented him from inter- 
fering with his stepfather’s comfortable enjoyment of 
the dead man’s shoes! 

Rosine Chevreul held in her hand the tonic which 
was to strengthen John Reynard’s position, and lis- 
tened meekly to his directions for insuring his continu- 
ance in the same. 

“You are to continue the daily walks which our 
dear Bertha so wisely instituted, but you will please 
confine your conversations during those walks to 
matters of general interest. Above all things, you will 
avoid any emotional excitement. If he touches upon 
personal subjects, — and he will be apt to do so, as Bertha 
has striven, in injudicious kindness, to lead him to talk 
of the friends and affections of his earlier days, — lead 
him gently from the subject and strive to win him to 
converse, instead, of his life abroad.” 

This to guard against the tide of memory being 
started afresh by childish reminiscence and tender 
stories of the auld lang syne. 

“I prefer, for awhile at least, my love,” to Mrs. 
Reynard, “that his evenings should be spent in his 
own room, with one or the other of us as companion. 
Only one at a time, however ; for I think almost un- 


236 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


broken quiet is the best panacea for his disturbed brain, 
and the conversation of two or three persons would 
prove too exciting.” 

Mrs. Reynard acquiesced in the wisdom of this 
measure also. 

This exclusion of the doomed boy from the family 
circle in the drawing-room of evenings was a sure 
guarantee that Bertha Lombard’s sweet voice and 
Logie o’ Buchan’s tender melody should create no more 
mischief. 

“ In the present weak condition of his brain, I con- 
sider music by far too exciting,” continued the man 
of science. 

“ By far,” was the wifely echo. 

Having thus virtually imprisoned his stepson, and 
insured the administration of three glasses of absinthe 
daily, and given orders that all attempts at cheerful 
conversation, on his part, should be nipped in the bud, 
and securely excluded all the warmth, and brightness, 
and joy from the luckless boy’s shadowed pathway. 
Dr. Reynard considered that he had performed his 
duty as a man and a Christian, and, figuratively speak- 
ing, mounted another round in his own estimation of 
himself, and on the ladder of fortune. 

“ Step by step, John Reynard, — you are almost at the 
top round,” he murmured, mentally, as “he washed 
his hands in invisible soap, in imperceptible water.” 

Poor Bertha gave a little flicker of hope when she 
was informed that one of the autocrat’s regulations was 
that one member of the family was to spend the even- 
ing with Ralph, in regular rotation, in his own sitting- 
room. 

“ It is to be taken in regular routine,” explained the 
master of Aland, “so that we may all have the satisfac- 
tion of contributing our share toward the dear boy’s 
entertainment.” 

“ Papa is an angel!” exclaimed Helen Barrow, en- 
thusiastically. “No own father could have contrived 
for Ralph with more tender consideration.” 


LIFE AT ALAND. 


23T 


Bertha, to whom this remark was addressed, made 
no reply in words, but I rather fancy it occurred to her 
that such was not her conception of augels. 

Bertha waited with eager impatience for her evening 
to come. 

Dr. Reynard had waived his claim as senior in favor 
of Ralph’s mother on the first evening ; then he ten- 
derly insisted that Helen should be the second to spend 
the evening in cheerful attempts to amuse her brother ; 
the third was his own ; and the fourth was awarded 
to Bertha, who waited for its coming with what impa- 
tience may be imagined, and made ready for her loving 
task with joyous eagerness. 

There had been no outburst, no display, of violence 
on Ralph’s part since that memorable day in the dining- 
room. He was docile and patient to a pitiful degree, — 
would sit for hours with his arms folded and his head 
drooped upon his breast, never speaking, unless spoken 
to ; and when addressed, would turn his dim eyes upon 
one with such wistful sadness in the gaze that one’s 
heart was filled with tenderest pity. The only moment 
at which there was ever any sign of life about him 
was when Miss Chevreul would approach him with his 
tonic mixed in a glass of water ; then he became ani- 
mal in his eagerness. He would seize the glass with 
both hands, drain it to the very last drop, and, handing 
back the glass, would beg for more in piteous earnest- 
ness and with a hungry, wild look in his eyes that irre- 
sistibly reminded one of a starving dog. At other 
times his quietness and dullness amounted to apathy. 

Bertha’s evening had come, and, with a lighter heart 
than she had known for weeks past, she made her way 
to the door of Ralph’s prison. She paused with her 
hand upon the door-handle, startled by the sound of a 
loud and ftfrious voice within. Its angry denunciation 
of something or some one was being deprecated in 
smooth, oily accents by another voice. Bertha softly 
opened the door and stood within the sitting-room. 

Dr Reynard was there alone with his stepson. He 
21 


238 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


paid Ralph a daily visit in a medical capacity, and I 
suppose had seen cause to remain. 

As Miss Lombard made her appearance within the 
room, Dr. Reynard turned to his stepson, who was 
pacing the room in a state of fierce excitement, saying, 
in a soothing voice, — 

“Ralph, my boy, here is Bertha, — pretty Cousin 
Bertha ! — come to pay you a visit. Will you not wel- 
come her V 

A glad smile broke over the poor, worn face, and 
Ralph turned eagerly in the direction in which his 
stepfather pointed; then his face changed, and dark 
hatred glowed in his eyes in place of the look of love 
that had come into them at the mention of the beloved 
name. 

“ That is not Bertha ! — that is not my Bertha! My 
Bertha is tiny and smiling and sw^eet! That is not 
her ! — send her away ! — send her away 1 It is the 
beautiful serpent! — I hate her! — I hate her!” And 
quicker than thought he seized a goblet from the table 
near which he was standing, and hurled it at the 
woman who loved him so well as she stood there white 
and motionless. 

“ Leave the room !” exclaimed Dr. Reynard to the 
young girl, in a quick, imperious voice, which she 
obeyed involuntarily. 

Sobbing as if her heart would break, her uncle-in- 
law found her half an hour later in his wife’s room, 
whither he repaired as soon as he had administered an 
anodyne and seen his stepson quieted after his paroxysm. 

“Uncle John!” exclaimed the young girl, wiping 
away her tears and trying to steady her voice, “ will 
you tell me why Cousin Ralph seems to know every 
one but me, and why my presence seems to excite him 
to those fearful rages ?” 

“Nothing in the world is more easily explained, my 
dear Bertha. The Bertha Lombard who is the object 
of such affectionate remembrance to our poor boy was 
a little girl, whom he himself describes as tiny and 


LIFE AT ALAND. 


239 


smiling and sweet. His disordered mind will not 
allow him to form any new impressions, or enable him 
to correct errors in the old ones ; hence his inability to 
recognize in you — a tall, finely-developed young lady 
— the little Bertha of his childish love.” 

“ But he seemed to know me in those few days when 
he was so much better.” 

“Partially, no doubt; but remember, my dear, the 
insane idea that took possession of him the other night 
with regard to you. He imagines you in some way 
responsible for his fancied delivery into the hands of 
his captors, as you will remember he called James and 
myself; and it is worse than useless, it is positively 
dangerous, to try and argue him out of any of his 
crazed fancies in his present condition.” 

“Therefore, Bertha,” interposed Mrs. Reynard, “as 
much as we appreciate your affection for Ralph, and 
as hard as I know it will be for you, we must positively 
interdict all communication with him, for awhile at 
least.” 

Bertha tearfully assented to the apparent necessity 
for this cruel exclusion of herself from attendance on her 
cousin. Thus -John Reynard excluded from his step- 
son the one individual whose influence was at all likely 
to prove inimical to his own interests. Things were in 
neat trim now, and he could turn his attention com- 
fortably to other matters. 

Sadly and monotonously enough the almost stag- 
nant current of life at Aland crept onward down the 
stream of time for the next few months. Bertha was 
too proud to wear her heart upon her sleeve for daws 
to peck at, so she buried her sadness from the view of 
others, and went her way calmly and quietly, — hoping 
much, fearing little, for youth is both hopeful and 
fearless. Rosine Chevreul was her comforter and her 
solace. 

“I talk to him constantly of you, Bertha darling, 
and the memory of his little Cousin Bertha seems the 
one bright spot in his intellect ; but he cannot yet re- 


240 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


cognize you in the young lady I sometimes point out 
to him from our windows. ‘ That is not Bertha,’ he 
will say ; ‘ but you tell me she will come, and I will 
wait. Yes, I will wait for my darling.’ ” 

Then Bertha would shed soft tears and kiss the gov- 
erness and thank her for keeping her memory green 
and fresh in her cousin’s shattered mind. Then Ro- 
sine would beg her nervously not to let her uncle know 
what she had told her, for she was acting against his 
direct orders in allowing Ralph to dwell upon the 
past. Then this strange prohibition set Bertha to won- 
dering and pondering, and the more she wondered, 
and the more she pondered, the more confused became 
her conjectures, and the more decided became her dis- 
like for Dr. John Reynard. What Bertha’s brain-work 
eventually led to remains to be seen. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

HELEN’S DEBUT. 

Ip, during the process of reading the preceding 
thirty-three chapters, my readers have insensibly ab- 
sorbed the idea that Dr. John Reynard was an inflated 
bundle of black deceit, conceited vanity, and iniquitous 
desires, let them read this thirty-fourth one in all 
charity, seeking earnestly for some indication of those 
angelic qualities, for the knowledge of whose existence 
we have, so far, been depending solely upon certain 
commendatory ejaculations emanating from his very 
partial stepdaughter. 

It was he who first reminded his wife that it would 
soon be time for little Helen to make her debut. It 
was he who generously pressed upon the same indi- 
vidual the duty of making that debut a brilliant one. 


HELENAS DEBUT. 


241 


regardless of trouble and expense. It was he who 
answered the unspoken reproach in Bertha Lombard’s 
brown eyes, by talking so beautifully of the duties he 
owed his young stepdaughter, that her fresh young 
life must not be mildewed by the sorrowful gloom that 
Ralph’s misconduct had brought upon her home. It 
was his duty to take her out into her native atmos- 
phere of joy and warmth and brightness. He even 
gave proof of a most Christian-like spirit of forgive- 
ness toward the young girl, who hardly concealed her 
dislike to him. He proposed that the two cousins 
should make their debut together. 

They were all sitting round the fire in the library 
when Helen’s debut was bi3ing discussed, Bertha 
alone making believe to work. She .politely waited for 
her aunt to answer this suggestion. A cold 

“ Of course, Bertha can accompany us if she wishes. 
But I had never thought of her going, and have made 
no preparation,” was all she said. 

Dumb silence from Helen, who had no fancy for hav- 
ing herself put in the background by beautiful Bertha. 

Then Becky’s child spoke up for herself. First 
she gave a fierce little stab at the unoffending piece of 
muslin she was working on, which gave her courage to 
look straight into the bad, black eyes of her step-uncle. 

“ Thanks, Uncle John,” she said, in her clear, brave 
voice ; “ you mean kindly, maybe, but nothing could 
induce me to join in festivities of any kind so long 
as my precious cousin is in his present unhappy condi- 
tion. " I shall remain at home with Miss Chevreul.” 

Then she got up and went away, leaving the fox, 
and the peafowl, and the butterfly a little abashed, and 
very much enraged at her bold words and defiant 
bearing. 

“My love,” said the fox, “ your niece needs bring- 
ing down.” 

“ Mamma,” said the butterfly, “ I think a box on 
the ear would make her treat us all with a little more 
respect.” 

21 * 


242 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ I shall reprimand her,” said the peafowl, loftily. 

And in due time Otis Barrow’s little daughter flashed 
above the fashionable horizon, and it was not long 
before the learned Galileos and Herschels of the beau- 
monde, bringing their telescopic observations to bear 
upon the glittering stranger, pronounced her a star of 
the first magnitude, and Helen’s success was an ac- 
complished fact. 

But as is the case in all matters worth discussing at 
all, a great diversity of opinion prevailed on the subject 
of her claims to belleship. So many were the opinions, 
and so great was the diversity, that, for the sake of 
brevity and convenience, I have reduced them to two 
generic opinions, — the opinion of her own sex and the 
widely differing opinion of the opposite sex, to which 
I shall subjoin — as a true and faithful biographer 
should — my own opinion, thus forming the three 
opinions to which the caption of this chapter refers. 

“ Do you think she is pretty ?” asked timid Miss A 
(who was cautious, and never expressed an opinion 
until she had heard one) of Miss B, who was tall and 
slender, — a little too tall, and a trifle too slender. 

“ Pretty !” echoed Miss B, in a voice of amiable re- 
luctance. “ Well, dear, I do not like to be the first to 
express an unfavorable opinion ; but, then, how can 
any one call a little, dumpy thing like that, a regular 
hop-o’-my-thumb girl, pretty ’ ?” 

“ Do tell me what you think of that nose,” said the 
strictly Roman Miss C, confidentially, to the rigidly 
aquiline Miss D, as the two stood close together in the 
crowded vestibule of a fashionable church, eyeing Miss 
Barrow savagely from beneath their respective veils. 

“ I suppose the men, dear, would call it piquant and 
slightly retrousse ; I should pronounce it a most de- 
cided and most abominable pug.” 

“ So should I,” whispered Miss D, in an energetic 
undertone ; “ but, for heaven’s sake, don’t let any one 
know that I said so I” 

“ Of course not, my love.” 


HELENAS DEBUT. 


243 


“ What do you think of her dressing asked Miss 
E of her bosom friend, Miss F. “ Don’t you think it is 
perfectly exquisite ?” 

“ That may be your idea of ‘ exquisite but I assure 
you I think she has the poorest conception of the proper 
combination of colors of any girl I ever did see. Give me 
a million of dollars, and a chance to do my shopping 
in Paris, and I will show you the meaning of the word 
dress.” 

Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like Miss 
F, who strongly affected rainbow combinations. 

“Do you know,” said Miss G to Miss H, “ that I 
think she has the boldest manners of any girl in her 
first season that I ever saw in my life ?” 

“For mercy’s sake,” rejoined Miss H, “do not say 
that where the men can hear it, for they will say you 
are dying of envy ; for you know, dear, even I, your 
best friend, have to scold you constantly for your stupid 
bashfulness, but here, in my own room, I will tell you 
that I cordially agree with you. I think her ‘ graceful 
self-possession,’ as brother John calls it, amounts to 
absolute brass.” 

“ You must acknowledge now,” said Miss I, who 
was the possessor of a pair of fine gray eyes that 
were beyond all rivalship, coaxingly to Miss J, “that 
her eyes are really fine ; such a clear dark gray, and 
such long, silky lashes.” 

“ I think those great, cold, staring eyes of hers are 
the ugliest things about her,” snappishly retorted Miss 
J, looking daggers at her friend from a pair of small, 
china-blue orbs. 

“What a mouth !” laughed pretty Miss K, opening 
a rosebud aperture to give utterance to her sentiments, 
in confidence, to her particular friend. Miss L. • 

“ Hideous !” retorted Miss L, whose lips were thin 
and bluish ; “ her under lip looks as if it had been 
stung by a wasp, and swollen up in consequence.” 

“ Do you know,” cried Miss M, enviously, to Miss 
N, “that she wears a number thirteen shoe and num- 
ber six glove ?” 


244 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“Possibly,” retorted Miss N, tapping the carpet 
with the toe of a number four; “any one could wear 
number thirteens and sixes if they chose to pinch the 
life out of their feet and hands.” 

“ She does walk as if she was in mortal agony, 
doesn’t she ?” rejoined Miss M, immensely comforted. 

“ The gentlemen all say she is quite brilliant. Have 
you heard her converse yet, Miss 0 ?” asked Miss P, 
who Avas a literary young lady, and wrote for the 
magazines. 

“ Well, I do not know that I can say I have heard 
her converse: I have heard her talk a good deal ; but, 
in my opinion, there is a vast difference between the 
two.” 

“ Oh, vast !” echoed Miss P, brightening. 

“ But the gentlemen seem to find her very entertain- 
ing, and that is all that is necessary, I suppose ; though, 
for myself, I should prefer something a little more solid 
than flippant repartee or apt quotation.” 

“ So should I, infinitely.” 

“ I am told,” said Miss Q, who was a serious young 
lady, and read the Christian Advocate in preference 
to Godey or Demorest, “that she is remarkably frivo- 
lous ; has not one idea above dress.” 

“I imagine that what you have heard is correct,” 
promptly responded Miss R, “ for the few times I have 
seen her at church she has been dressed more like an 
actress than a Christian. The last time she was there 
she had on a Marie Louise blue silk, completely covered 
with black lace flounces, and I know the lace shawl 
she had on was one of the thousand-dollar ones, and 
her hat was a perfect mass of velvet, and lace, and 
feathers. You know she sits in the right-hand aisle, 
just five or six pews back of me, and I can see per- 
fectly well everything she has on.” 

Miss Q heaved a sigh of pious condemnation of 
such frivolity, or secret envy of such gorgeousness, 
I dare not say which. 

“ They do say she treats that poor, afflicted brother 


HELENAS DEBUT. 


245 


of hers outrageously,’’ said Miss S to Miss T. “My 
cousin’s brother-in-law came over in the vessel from 
Europe with them, and he says that this brother of 
hers is a poor idiot, who was born a natural, and they 
thought, possibly, they could take him over there and 
get him into an asylum before Miss Barrow was 
ready to make her debut; but he begged his mother so 
pitifully to let him come home with her that she re- 
lented, and brought him back, and Miss Barrow was 
so enraged at the idea of his being allowed to come 
back and live at home that she treats him out- 
rageously.” 

“You don’t say so I” cried Miss T, greedily swal- 
lowing this fable for gospel. “ She looks as if she were 
just capable of such conduct. I think she has the 
hardest face for so young a girl that I ever saw.” 

“ Don’t her diamonds nearly drive you wild?” asked 
honest Miss U, who was poor and handsome, of her 
friend. Miss Y, who was rich and not handsome. 

“ If they are reaZ,” said Miss Y, loftily. “ They are 
certainly very magnificent ; but they only serve to make 
her insignificance the more apparent.” 

“ I wonder if her hair is all her own ?” queried little 
Miss W, anxiously, of Miss X, whose coiffure was 
fearfully and wonderfully made. 

“ You little goose I of course not,” retorted Miss X ; 
“ no one wears her own hair now.” 

“ She has a beautiful form if she is little,” said 
amiable Miss Y to unamiable Miss Z. 

“ Beautiful, no doubt ; but one would really like to 
know how much of the credit for it belongs to nature 
and how much to the mantuamaker,” replied the 
angular Miss Z, who had been given over in despair 
by the most accomplished mantuamaker in the city. 

‘‘Alas for the rarity 
Of Christian charity V* 

Let me hasten to rescue my poor Helen from total 
annihilation by recording the dicta of the other sex: 


246 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


“ Deuced fine girl ; star of the first magnitude ; dia- 
mond of the first water ; pearl without price ; pretty 
as a pink ; dances like a fay ; face piquant ; worth 
going in for ; charming little witch ; first-class prize ; 
sharp as a needle; manners of a little princess,” are 
specimen expressions of the universally favorable com- 
ments which issued from the moustached portion of 
Helen’s new world; but the moustaches, and the 
wearers, and the sentiments were so monotonously 
alike that it would be weary work to go through 
tbem all categorically. In short, she was all shadow 
and no light to the women ; she was all light and no 
shadow to the men. My own opinion is the correct 
mean to these two extremes. 

Helen Barrow was a naturally warm-hearted, lively 
girl, who had grown up first under the chilling in- 
fluences of her mother’s cold nature, and at an early 
age had been sent to acquire a veneering of selfishness 
and heartlessness at the hands of her Aunt Julia, 
which had been laid on lavishly and artistically, and 
called “polish.” She had left school, as every girl 
does, her heart bounding with bright anticipations of 
the brilliant life she was to lead, and dreaming of the 
gay circle she was to gather around her at Aland. 

Ralph’s melancholy condition had been a great blow 
to her ; for, in the first place, every girl feels a desire 
to look up to and lean upon an older brother, and this, 
of course, she could never do now ; and, in the second 
place, when she learned that his misfortune was the re- 
sult of his disgraceful excesses, she turned from him 
in disgust and loathing ; for, remember, she had been 
educated into selfishness, and polished into a supreme 
distaste for anything that was in itself lacking in 
elegance and polish. That she could ameliorate her 
unhappy brother’s condition, by devoting herself to 
his restoration, never once occurred to her, for her 
aunt and her stepfather had taught her to consider her 
own wishes and desires as paramount to all other con- 
siderations ; and while ineffable pity for the shattered 


HELENAS DEBUT. 


24t 


mind and darkened soul of the young man filled Bertha 
Lombard’s pure and unselfish soul, Helen only saw in 
him a marplot, who, so far from aiding her in her 
anticipated social triumphs, had interfered sadly with 
her plans, for it was an impossibility to have any festivi- 
ties at Aland with her brother as he was ; and, although 
she could leave home in search of her gayeties, she 
could not enjoy them comfortably for thinking of the 
family skeleton at home. No, she was the injured 
party. Ralph had come home incapacitated from all 
brotherly offices, and was a disgrace to himself and 
her ; and this she resented. Resented by coldness and 
harshness, for she had been educated to be cold and 
harsh, but beneath the hard crust of selfishness which 
had formed upon the girl’s impressible nature there 
was a heart and a wellspring of warm afiection, which 
needed only the magic touch of love — pure and true — 
to force it into activity, and bid it wash away the 
veneering of selfishness and artificialness for which 
Madame Yerzenay and circumstances were jointly re- 
sponsible. In her secret heart she respected and ad- 
mired her Cousin Bertha for her treatment of Ralph, 
and yet experienced a sensation of irritation against 
her, for she felt that Bertha was doing what she ought 
to be doing, and she# believed that her cousin heartily 
despised her for selfish frivolity. This she resented. 

Moreover, Bertha was so beautiful that it was ex- 
tremely difficult for a merely tolerably pretty girl, who 
had been educated in a school of vanity and egotism, to 
do her bare justice. Bertha’s beauty made Helen cross. 
She knew that her own personal charms were vastly 
inferior to her cousin’s, and she had the good sense to 
perceive that the adventitious aid of her diamonds and 
her Parisian wardrobe would avail her nothing if Bertha 
Lombard, with her natural loveliness and exquisite 
manners, was brought into competition with them. 
Therefore, by the rules of the Yerzenay code, as 
Bertha’s light could not be extinguished, it must be 
hidden under a bushel measure. After she had secured 


248 


DEAD MEE’S SHOES. 


herself a desirable parti, she was fully resolved to 
“ bring her cousin out,’’ and see her well established 
in life. 

In her filial relations she was like the majority of 
girls of her age and condition. Her mother hacb be- 
stowed very little love and care on her in her lifetime. 
She had been properly clothed, properly fed, sent out of 
the way when her mother was in a bad humor, petted 
and laughed at when her mother was in a good humor, 
called a “perfectly outrageous child” when she had 
torn a new dress or spoiled a ribbon, furtively smiled 
at when she had gotten off a flippant witticism, or 
adroitly extricated herself from a scrape by a neat fib, 
and had grown up, in consequence, just what she was, 
— a girl with no very decided ideas on the subject of 
right and wrong, with an equal share of good impulses 
and bad, only, so far, circumstances had given occasion 
for more frequent display of the latter than the former. 
When you add to all this the lavish indulgence which 
her stepfather accorded her every whim, you will agree 
with me that it was matter of no very great surprise 
that Helen Barrow — young, wealthy, and petted — 
should be a little spoiled. 

I am fully aware that I have limned you no very 
perfect picture, but then my subject was no very perfect 
mortal, — in fact, she was a sad little bundle of imper- 
fections ; she was just as I have drawn her, not very 
good, nor yet very bad. Well for you and me, reader, 
if others can say as much for us behind our backs. 


CO UNTERPLOTTINQ. 


249 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

COUNTERPLOTTING. 

Bertha was up bright and early on the morning 
succeeding the departure of the Reynard party for New 
Orleans, and as soon as she was dressed she made her 
way to the dining-room in search of “ Gus,’’ the pre- 
siding genius of that apartment. She found him indus- 
triously spreading a little round table for one. 

“ Gus,” said Miss Lombard, authoritatively, “ you 
will lay a plate for me on my cousin’s table as long as 
the family is absent. I do not intend taking my meals 
alone in this great barn of a room.” And she gave a 
little shiver as she glanced over the long, chilly dining- 
room, in the middle of which her lonely little table was 
placed. 

“ Yes, missy,” said Gus, with alacrity, demolishing 
the work of twenty minutes in the space of five, for 
Bertha Lombard was well beloved by all the depend- 
ents about the premises, and her orders were always 
obeyed with cheerful promptitude. 

“ Missy,” said the boy, coming closer to the young 
girl, and nervously twisting the cup-towel hanging 
over his arm into a tight coil, “ I’se got a ’fession to 
make to you.” 

“A what, Gus?” 'asked Miss Lombard, smiling, but 
puzzled. 

“What you call that, missy, when folks done did 
somethin’ wrong an’ then goes an’ tells on theyselves 
widouten bein’ made to ?” asked poor Gus, in sad per- 
plexity. 

“ Oh,” said Bertha, enlightened by this explanation 
of his meaning, “you mean a con-fession, Gus.” 

22 


250 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


“Well, den, missy, I’se got a cor?i-fession to make 
to you,” resumed Gus, energetically and imitatively 
emphasizing his newly- acquired syllable. 

“ Well, Gus, let me hear it.” And Bertha settled 
herself in an arm-chair by the *fire, prepared i6 listen 
patiently, and judge leniently, for Gus’s character for 
prolixity and probity were so equally well established 
that she felt confident beforehand that the “somethin^ 
wrong” he was about to confess, and which it would 
take him such a long time to confess in the chosen 
phraseology of his race, would, in the end, turn out to 
be the veriest peccadillo. 

“Well, Miss Berthy, ma’am, you mus’ know, in de 
fus’ place, dat I is ben very far from well for some 
time pas’, ma’am.” 

“1 am sorry to hear it, Gus,” was the sympathetic 
reply from the young lady in the arm-chair. “ What 
has been the matter ?” 

“Well, a little of mos’ ev’rything, missy. I’se had 
a tech of the rheumatics, an’ a swimmin’ in de head 
like, an’ a sort o’ innard fever.” 

“ Inward fever, Gus 1” ejaculated Bertha ; “ why, 
what on earth can that be ?” 

“ A fever, missy, wot de patien’ hisself is aware of, 
but nobody kin tell it from de feelin’ of his skin,” sen- 
tentiously replied this victim of many ailments. 

“Ah !” said Bertha, informed and amused. “Well, 
Gus, do you want me to ‘ doctor’ you in Uncle John’s 
absence ? Is that what you are coming to ?” 

“No, missy,” said Gus, very solemnly, “my corn- 
fession is what I’se coming to.” 

“ Yery well ; go on.” And Bertha assumed her judi- 
cial aspect. 

“You knows. Miss Berthy, that I sets Mars’ Ralphy’s 
table arter I done sot the big un’, ’cause Hiram’s a 
giddy young thing what ’ijid as soon set po’ little 
master down widout any fork as wid one, and ’ud 
never know wedder de salt was on de table or not. 
An’ then you knows, arter I done superintendin’ like, 


CO UNTERPL 0 TTING. 


251 


as you may say, de settin’ of master’s table, — for you 
know, missy, he is de master, however things may 
look at present ” 

“Yes,” said Bertha, quickly; “go on, Gus.” 

“ Well, Miss Berthy, ma’am, as I was sayin’, I sets 
Mars’ Balphy’s table, and in de sideboard wat sets 
in his dinin’-room Miss Rosie she keeps de bottle 
ov tonic which de doctor he ordered for po’ little 
master.” 

“ Yes, Gus,” and Bertha began to betray a little 
more interest; “what of that?” 

“ Well, Miss Berthy, my back was a hurtin’ of me 
powerful bad de other mornin’; an’ wen I was gittin’ 
the sugar out ov de sideboard to put on de table, — for 
I never ’lows that pilferin’ Hiram to handle de keys 
to de said sideboard, — I jis took a little pull at Mars’ 
Ralphy’s medicine, thinkin’ it might holp my back, 
you know, missy.” 

“Oh, Gus, who was pilfering then ?” asked Bertha, 
with a little reproving nod of her pretty head. 

“ Stealin’, missy, — stealin’ medicine ? Dat would be 
a funny notion. 1 knowed ef little master was hisself, 
an’ I was to go an’ ax him for de coat off his back, 
he’d give it to me, for ole master thought a heap ov 
dis nigger Gus, missy, sho’s you born.” 

“ I know he did, Gus, and dear cousin would, too, 
if he knew you for what you are. Go on, and let me 
hear about the tonic which you didn’t pilfer.” And 
Bertha looked very demure. 

“Yes, Miss Berthy,” said Gus, “I’ll ’low that it 
was pilferin’, but maybe good may come ov it yet, 
missy, for de Lord works in mos’ mysterous ways, 
my little mistiss.” 

Bertha was extremely puzzled to know how Gus 
was going to prove that he had been divinely directed 
to her cousin’s sideboard. ' 

“ Well, missy, right or wrong, I tole you as how I 
tuk a pull at Mars’ Ralphy’s tonic bottle for my back’s 
sake.” 


252 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ Well.’’ 

“Well, Miss Berthy, all I’se got to say is dat num- 
ber six isblue-john by de side ov that ’ar stuff.” 

Gus’s “blue-john” was the skimmed milk of the 
dairy, let me explain, and not the fluor-spar of the 
miners. 

“Why, ef ole Nick had’er brewed it, and sot his 
wife to bile it in de fiery furnace, it could’n’ be no 
hotter, missy,” continued the old man, growing very 
earnest in voice and manner. 

“ Well,” was still all that Bertha, alert and inter- 
ested, took time to interpolate. 

“ An’ I want to know, missy, how is any bumin 
stomich gwine to stan’ wat would eat de staves out’er 
a wooden barrel in no time ?” 

“ But Dr. Reynard prescribed it, Gus.” 

“ Yes, missy,” was the negro’s laconic answer; but 
his face clouded over, and his voice was sullenly re- 
spectful. 

“ How did it make you feel, Gus ? Did it help your 
back ?” asked Bertha, innocently. 

“ Miss Berthy, does you remember one mornin’ last 
week dat I was so stupid an’ sleepy-like, waitin’ roun’ 
de table, dat mistiss got mad an’ tole me to git out de 
room an’ send Hiram in dar, and mars’ doctor, he say, 
as I left de door, ‘ De ole fool is bin drinkin’ whisky, 
I smells it in his breath’ ?” 

“Yes, I remember it,” said Bertha, “ perfectly.” 

“ Well, missy, ’fore God, all I had teched that mornin’ 
was one big^pull at Mars’ Ralphy’s medicine bottle.” 

Bertha Lombard sat bolt upright in her chair now ; 
her eyes had lost the laughing look they had worn 
when Gus first began his confession, and were flashing 
with the fires of indignation and determination. Her 
hands were tightly locked together, and her lips were 
rigidly compressed. 

“ How did it taste ?” was her next inquiry. 

“ Like bottled hell-fire I” was the negro’s prompt 
reply. 


CO UNTERPL 0 TTING. 


253 


“ Gas,” said the young girl, turning her clear, pierc- 
ing eyes full upon him, as he stood respectfully before 
her, “you have not told me all this merely to confess 
your own pilfering; you have had some motive in it, 
I know. That motive may be a good or bad one ; it 
rests with your own conscience to tell you which, but 
you must not say another word. And let me advise you 
not to say to any one else as much as you have said 
to me, for your own sake. Of course you are perfectly 
safe with me, but you must keep your own discoveries 
and your own suspicions to yourself. Now go.” 

“ Have I made my little missy angry?” asked the 
old man, penitently. 

“No, Gus, for I believe you spoke out of love for 
Cousin Ralph, and I could not, therefore, be angry 
with you.” And Bertha Lombard’s voice took on a 
gentler tone. “ But remember, you have said enough.” 

Gus left the room without replying to this, leaving 
Bertha in undisturbed possession of the long dining- 
room, the length of which she paced backward and 
forward in the excitement of the suspicions aroused by 
the negro’s confession. 

Exciting drinks were to be kept from him, James 
Reynard had told her, and yet here was a drink being 
administered to him three times a day, by order of his 
stepfather, which had proved most powerfully exciting 
to the brain of an able-bodied man. He was to have 
cheerful society, was another express order of the 
European physicians, yet here was he given over to 
the constant companionship of a woman whose own 
deeply-seated gloom was calculated to depress the 
liveliest of mortals rather than cheer the melancholy. 

“ God forgive me, if I do him a cruel injustice !” 
was Bertha’s mental exclamation ; “but he /orce8 me 
to think that he has some design in plotting against 
the poor boy’s recovery, and if he has, what can that 
design be but to keep him out of his fortune ? And 
if he has,” she repeated, almost audibly, “ then, weak 
girl as I am, I will outwit him, if human ingenuity can 


254 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


accomplish it. Ralph, my poor Ralph, for your dear 
sake I will have to sully my lips with falsehoods. I 
will have to meet cunning with cunning. It will have 
to be plot and counterplot, and all unaided, for I have 
not a friend with whom I can even take counsel. I 
have not a soul upon whose assistance I can rely. I 
cannot take a slave for my ally, — one who might pos- 
sibly spoil all, even in the moment of anticipated suc- 
cess, by cowardly fears ; so God help me, if I am about 
to do right, and forgive me, if I am wrong.” 

Bertha’s was a strong, self-reliant nature, given 
more to prompt action than to pensive brooding. In 
the quarter of an hour she thus spent, restlessly pacing 
up and down the deserted dining-room, she had decided 
on the first step to be taken in the effort to counteract 
the injuries she firmly believed was being done her 
cousin. 

The plot, jestingly referred to a chapter or two 
back, had been a mere determination on her part to 
join Ralph in his daily walks, to resume her musical 
experiments upon him, and to strive again to arouse 
his memory in the absence of his stepfather, for she 
had never been satisfied that Ralph’s condition had at 
all improved since their cessation ; and, although she 
had never dared say so, she was secretly presumptuous 
enough to doubt the wisdom of the course laid down 
by Dr. Reynard, and had long ago resolved that as 
soon as the opportunity occurred, she would resume 
the course which had promised such flattering success. 

“ I will be more careful this time,” she thought, “ if 
I really was to blame before, and only exercise his 
memory a very little at a time.” 

Now, although she would not let Gus place his sus- 
picions in words, she believed that he, too, thought the 
course pursued was resulting in evil instead of good ; 
and she determined if loving activity and unsleeping 
vigilance could render harmless the hurtful influences 
that were bearing upon her cousin in his helpless con- 
dition, they should not be lacking. 


CO UNTERPL 0 TTING. 


255 


Her plans concocted, she proceeded to action. The 
first step she took was to hunt up an empty decanter, 
with which she left the dining-room, and proceeded 
rapidly to the little room — once the school-room, now 
the dining-room — of Miss Chevreul and Ralph. 

Gus was there laying the table for three, as Bertha 
had ordered. Everything was silent in the two ad- 
joining rooms, for both their occupants were habitually 
late risers. 

“ Gus,” said Miss Lombard, carelessly, holding the 
empty decanter by her side, where it was hidden in the 
folds of her dress, “ I want you to go and ask Richard 
if he knows how to make those crumpets Cousin Ralph 
used to be so fond of, and if he says ‘ No,’ step over to 
Aunt Dora’s room, and ask her if she feels well enough 
to make some for our breakfast.” 

“ Yes, missy,” said Gus, in a cheerful voice, anxious 
to show his beloved young mistress that he had gotten 
over the smart inflicted by her equivocal reception of 
his confession, and he left the room briskly. 

The keys were dangling in the 'door of the side- 
board, toward which Bertha eagerly hastened, her 
pure, sweet face dyed crimson as she thus inaugurated 
what she felt must be a long course of such secret 
manoeuvring and watchful cunning that it bore the 
semblance of guilt. 

The tonic was there, a fresh bottleful of the green- 
ish-white liquor. 

Setting her empty decanter on the floor, Bertha 
poured fully two-thirds the contents of the tonic into 
it, then she filled the tonic bottle with water from the 
pitcher on the sideboard, stopped it up, and set it in 
its original place, after which she hastily left the room 
with her decanter full of tonic; this she safely deposited 
in a locked closet, in her own room, and then flew back 
to the dining-room, where Gus presently found her, 
engaged in the housewifery employment of placing the 
teacups in the warmer before the fire. 

“ Well, what did he say ?” she asked, looking up at 


256 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


the waiter, with a very red face. She had purposely 
sent word to Richard to prepare a dish which she knew 
he was utterly ignorant of, so that Gus would have to 
travel to the farthest extremity of the yard, where 
Aunt Dora’s cabin was located. 

“Aunt Dora’s gwine to make ’em, missy,” said Gus, 
quietly resuming his interrupted occupation. 

When Ralph finally entered the breakfast-room, list- 
less and quiet, as usual, Bertha was sitting by the fire- 
place, looking demurely at home, her little fingers 
busily employed on a piece of crochet, her feet crossed 
upon the low brass fender as if they belonged just 
there and nowhere else, outwardly very calm, but 
conscious of a wildly-beating heart. 

“ Good-morning, cousin.” And she looked up at the 
young man with a brave, bright smile, while her voice 
and her heart were full of tears. But Bertha had as- 
sumed the role of actress, and she never did things by 
halves. 

“Good-morning, miss,” said Ralph, with the stately 
politeness he always accorded the “beautiful lady.” 

Bertha placed a chair for him opposite her own, he 
took it and sat patiently and quietly in it for a very 
few moments, then he began to show signs of restless- 
ness, and cast impatient looks around him, as if he 
wanted something or somebody. 

“ Miss Chevreul is late this morning,” said Bertha, 
soothingly, “ and you want your tonic.” 

“Yes, yes !” he exclaimed, eagerly; “bring it.” 

Tremblingly, Bertha arose to bring it. Suppose her 
ruse should fail, and he should fly into one of those 
fearful rages when the diluted tonic should be given 
him ? Ignorant of the art of mixing the absinthe, 
which had been duly imparted to Miss Chevreul by • 
Dr. Reynard on giving the tonic into her hands, she 
poured out half a tumbler of the contents and handed 
it to her cousin. 

He tasted it, smelt it, and handed it back with a 
dissatisfied air. “ What is it ? What is the matter 
with it?” 


CO UNTERPL 0 TTINO. 


257 


“Maybe I have not fixed it right,” said Bertha. 
“ Come, here is breakfast on the table ; let us eat break- 
fast first and take the tonic afterward.” 

Ralph glanced at the breakfast-table, then seizing 
the glass from Bertha’s hand, drained its almost taste- 
less contents to the bottom. Contrary to Bertha’s 
frightened anticipations, he did not rage and rave, he 
only looked sullenly discontented. As Bertha replaced 
the glass upon the sideboard, Miss Chevreul entered 
the room from her own apartment. 

“ Why, Bertha ! what does this mean ?” she asked, 
looking uneasily around at the evident signs ofusurpa- 
tion on the young girl’s part. 

“ It means, dear Miss Chevreul,” said Bertha, 
sweetly, but at the same time with a little rebellious 
air of determination about her, “ that I am not going 
to eat my meals like a prisoner in solitary confinement, 
and I hardly think you could be so cruel as to wish 
me to.” 

“ Certainly not, my dear ; but you know ” And 

the Frenchwoman paused in painful hesitation. 

“ I suppose you mean,” said Bertha, finishing her 
sentence for her, “that Uncle Reynard would object if 
he were here. Maybe he would, but you know, dear 
Miss Rosine, that I am a terrible outlaw, so you can- 
not be held responsible for anything I do after you 
have entered your protest. Well, you have entered 
your protest now, you have shown me plainly that 
you highly disapprove of my presence here, and by 
thus seating myself at the table, I prove that I am 
going to eat my meals with you and Cousin Ralph, in 
spite of all the protests, gentle Rosine, you can enter ; 
so do sit down before our nice crumpets are quite 
cold.” And with a bright smile the pretty rebel 
seated herself. There was nothing left for it but sub- 
mission on Miss Chevreul’s part. A nervous, abortive 
attempt at a smile quivered around her thin lips as she 
took her accustomed seat at the head of the table and 
proceeded to fill the coffee-cups. 


258 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


The meals in Ralph’s dining-room were generally 
partaken of in almost complete silence. Miss Chev- 
reul would occasionally ask some commonplace ques- 
tions, which he would answer or leave unanswered as 
chanced to suit him. On this morning, Bertha kept up 
a lively, rattling monologue, touching lightly and 
pleasantly on a variety of subjects ; but her only 
reward was seeing the sad-faced governess brighten 
under the genial influence of her presence. Ralph 
followed her with his eyes, listening to her sweet 
voice with evident pleasure, but never once seeming 
to grasp the meaning of anything she was saying. 
The meal concluded, Bertha turned to Miss Chevreul 
with a pleading face, and said to her, — 

“ I want to join your walk this morning, mademoi- 
selle ; do not be so cruel as to forbid me.” 

“ Bertha,” cried Miss Chevreul, in an agony of per- 
plexity, “let me tell you how I am situated. Dr. 
Reynard has left his stepson in my charge, with 
minute directions as to the course 1 am to pursue 
toward him, and with every confidence that I will do 
as he desired me. Yet here, on the very first morning, 
you are tempting me to disobey his orders ; and you 
know how hard it is for me to refuse you anything, 
for, oh, Bertha, my darling ! I do love you very, very 
dearly !” 

Bertha thanked her whilom teacher sweetly for this 
unexpected tribute, and then asked her gravely what 
express orders her uncle had left behind him. 

“ He told me,” said Rosine, who hoped, by a literal 
repetition of the autocrat’s commands, to insure obedi- 
ence to them, “that no one but myself was to accom- 
pany his stepson in his walks.” 

“ Can you imagine any reason for that command ?” 
asked Bertha. 

“I suppose,” replied Rosine, “it was to insure the 
perfect quiet he seems to think so necessary for Mr. 
Barrow.” 

“ Possibly,” said Bertha, in a doubting voice. “Now, 


CO UNTERPL 0 TTING. 


259 


mademoiselle, let me tell you what I think. I know 
it is great presumption to dare entertain an opinion 
conflicting with Dr. Reynard’s, but my opinion is the 
result of close observation. My cousin was undeniably 
better at the time of that unhappy excitement, and I 
consider that it was due to the cheerful course I pur- 
sued with him. He has had intense, suffocating quiet 
ever since he has been in your charge, and instead of 
improving he is worse than when he came home. I 
resolved some time ago that, if the opportunity was 
ever afforded me, I would try once more to restore 
Ralph’s mind by leading him gently over the well-re- 
membered paths of the past. God has sent me that 
opportunity, and I do not intend to lose it for fear of 
Dr. Reynard’s wrath. I may do good, I cannot do 
harm. And now, while we are on the subject, I may 
as well tell you exactly how I intend to proceed. I 
intend, in the first place, to restore this room to as 
complete a semblance of its old self as I can; I in- 
tend to bring before him constantly reminders of the 
childish past, to which his poor, clouded intellect so con- 
tinually reverts. I intend to resume the music which 
affected him so powerfully and so beneficially ; so far 
as I am able to accomplish it he shall be carried 
backward over the stream of the past to the time when 
he and I were two happy little children ; and, even if 
he then fails to find the lost links of memory’s chain, 
or, finding them, lacks the power to connect them with 
the present, we will both have been the happier for 
our stolen pleasure. I tell you honestly, this is what 
I intend doing. It is not in your power to prevent me, 
but you have it in your power to go right into the 
library and sit down and write every word of the trea- 
son I have just spoken to Dr. Reynard, and tell him 
that you are powerless to prevent me from carrying 
my seditious plans into execution.” 

“ Bertha, Bertha, how you run on ! You know I 
would not treat you so.” 

“ So you see, dear Miss Chevreul, you cannot help 


260 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


yourself. You are not disobeying Uncle Reynard’s 
orders, but I am defying them; and I shall be the first 
one to tell him how conscientiously you strove to obey 
him, let the consequences of my insubordination be 
what they may.” 

Rosine Chevreul looked with undisguised admira- 
tion at the animated face of the flashing creature be- 
fore her, who so proudly and defiantly pursued the 
course her own pure conscience dictated, and hungrily 
longed for the power to do likewise. 

So brave Bertha triumphantly carried her second 
point that morning, and formed the walking-party into 
a trio. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 
man’s extremity — god’s opportunity. 

“Bertha,” said Mademoiselle Chevreul, at the 
close of the first day of the young girl’s rebellious pro- 
ceedings, “ do you know that you are doing a very 
bold thing in thus inaugurating an entirely new routine 
for your cousin ?” 

The two ladies were sitting over the drawing-room 
fire after Ralph had retired to his own room. Bertha’s 
little feet were crossed upon the low brass fender, one 
elbow resting upon her lap supported her head, and 
her large brown eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon the 
glowing logs. She was busy planning to-morrow’s 
campaign. 

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, as demurely as in the 
days of yore when Miss Chevreul had charged her 
seriously with some childish delinquency. 

“A very bold thing, indeed, Bertha, for you, a young 
and ignorant girl, are presuming to set your own opin- 
ion, as to the best course to be pursued with your cousin, 


MAN’S EXTREMITY— GOD’S OPPORTUNITY. 261 


against the opinion of his stepfather, a man of experi- 
ence and a physician.” 

“ Miss Rosine,” said the young girl, “ I wish to ask 
you a few questions, which I hope you will answer 
very honestly. Do you think my Cousin Ralph’s 
condition at present, both mental and physical, is bet- 
ter or worse than it was when he first came home ?” 

“ Well, child, it certainly seems to us — but then, 
you know, we are so ignorant — that he is not so well.” 

“ If we are ignorant,” said Bertha, spiritedly, “ I 
presume we can tell when a person is dull or bright, 
cheerful or gloomy, if we are not men of experience 
and physicians to boot.” 

“ Yes, certainly, my dear ; but ” 

“ But,” said Miss Lombard, “you stand so much in awe 
of Dr. Reynard, in common with the rest of the family, 
that because he says a thing it seems to be all right. 
Now, my dear Miss Rosine, I cannot say through 
which of my ancestors, whether paternal or maternal, 
it has been handed down to me, but I have a terribly 
rebellious vein in me that impels me to do my own 
thinking, and pass my own judgment, in spite of every- 
thing and everybody. And as I know of no reason for 
thinking Dr. Reynard’s judgment infallible, I am auda- 
cious enough to fancy him mistaken in the present case. 
I conceive that I have a duty to perform toward 
my cousin, and I intend to perform it to the very best 
of my ability. It is unfortunate for me that my pro- 
ceedings have to be underhand and unauthorized, but 
the stubborn willfulness of others is alone responsible 
for my having to proceed in a clandestine manner. 
On the other hand, you have a duty to perform 
towards your employers. You conceive that exclud- 
ing me from my cousin’s society is necessary to the 
conscientious performance of that duty, and I can see 
that by taking matters so boldly into my own hands, 
I have caused you great pain and perplexity. Now, 
dear Miss Rosine, as I do not wish you to be consid- 
ered in any way responsible for my insubordination, I 
23 


262 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


am going to propose a compromise. In the first place,” 
she continued, “we all take it for granted — do we 
not ? — that it is the universal desire of the family that 
my cousin should be restored to his right mind.” 

“Why, of course, Bertha, who could desire the con- 
trary?” 

“ Ofcourse, who could?” replied Bertha, dryly. “Well, 
then, all I ask is an opportunity to prove whether my 
mode of treatment or Dr. Reynard’s is most likely to 
conduce to that happy end. 1 have never yet had my 
own way fully with my poor cousin, and this pro- 
longed absence of the authorities that interfered is my 
one chance ; but if, at the end of three weeks, there is 
not an improvement perceptible even to yourself, I will 
discontinue my innovating proceedings and let you 
have your own, or rather Dr. Reynard’s, way. But 
if you really love me, as you have so often pro- 
fessed to do, you surely will not be so cruel as to 
oppose me until you see some harmful results from my 
boldness ?” 

Thus appealed to, Rosine found it impossible to in- 
terfere with the devoted girl. 

“ It is for his good,” she argued, “ and if it really 
turns out that she has benefited him, his stepfather 
will forgive my disobedience of his orders; and she has 
promised, poor child, to discontinue her efforts if I 
pronounce them injurious by the end of three weeks. 
Surely no one will blame me for letting the poor, dear 
girl have a little happiness.” 

“ It is for his good,” argued Bertha ; “ and although 
mamma and papa begged me always to be truthful and 
honest, I’m sure they will forgive me the deceit with 
which I am compelled to act. If it does good, all his 
real friends will rejoice, and his enemies will deserve 
their discomfiture ; if it does harm, I can so easily drop 
my ministrations.” 

The grand error into which Dr, Reynard had fallen 
was in over-estimating Rosine Chevreul’s devotion to 
his interests, through fear of himself, and under-esti- 


V 


3rAN’S EXTREMITY— GOD'S OEFORTUNITY.- 203 

mating- the daring self-reliance of Bertha Lombard’s 
character. He had had fears that she might bring her 
blandishments to bear upon her cousin again ; but it had 
never once occurred to him that she would so daringly 
subvert all established authority. 

Moreover, his principal dependence was on the tonic, 
which was having such a highly beneficial effect, an 
ample supply of which he had left with Miss Chevreul ; 
and how could he know that Bertha’s lawless fingers 
would tamper with that too ? So, although he should 
much have preferred taking the young lady with 
them, he had seen her remain behind without any very 
serious apprehension. 

As regards Bertha’s exceedingly bold step in refer- 
ence to the tonic, all the difficulties and perplexities of 
her proposed plan of operations centered on that bottle. 
She was earnestly anxious to discover whether the 
fiery liquid was really harming Balph or not. But at 
this point her own sad ignorance balked her. She had 
cunningly managed, during the one day in which she 
had been experimenting, to substitute for the weak 
dilution, which he so scornfully rejected, a wine san- 
garee, which had stilled his cravings at each call for 
his stimulant, and sent him to bed finally in a state of 
drowsy calm. But that was only one day, and how 
was she to get through with the next, and the next, 
and the next ? for she had both her cousin and Miss 
Chevreul to deceive here, as she felt sure that in the 
matter of the tonic Rosine would continue firm, and 
she would have no good reason for combating that 
firmness. Chance had favored her on the first day. 
She had coaxed the poor boy into swallowing the first 
glassful before his attendant had made her appearance 
in the morning; she had coaxed Miss Chevreul into 
lying down in the middle of the day, for the relief of a 
really bad headache, and had then administered her 
claret sangaree, and when Rosine arose from her seat, 
languidly, about sundown, to give the third dose, she 
was briskly informed that it had just been administered. 


264 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


“ But that was only one day,” said poor Bertha to 
herself; “ how on earth am I to manage to keep it away 
from him long enough to see whether Gus is right or 
wrong in thinking it is injuring him ?” 

Even while these perplexing thoughts were tornlent- 
ing Bertha, and knitting her pretty brows into a per- 
fect pucker, she and Miss Chevreul were both startled 
by a loud rap at the front door. It was still early, 
and Gus, whose last duty, before leaving the house, 
was to see his young master comfortably settled for 
the night, heard the peremptory demand for admit- 
tance, and hastened to the front door. 

It had been a wet, drizzly, disagreeable day, — the 
inauguration day of a very wet and cold winter ; and, 
aftiir the door had been opened, the two ladies in the 
drawing-room heard a terrible stamping and scraping 
upon the door-mat, anxi a perfectly strange man’s voice 
holding converse with Gus, in loud, brisk tones. 

“ Family not at home, you say, eh ? but, my good 
boy, you will have to give me shelter yourself then, for 
my carriage has broken down over your bottomless 
roads, and it is as dark as Egypt, and neither myself 
nor my driver know anything about the neighbor- 
hood.” 

Gus stood still holding tjae door in his hand in terri- 
rible uncertainty, for although so well used to the open- 
hearted generosity of the country in which he had been 
born and reared, as not to have hesitated a moment 
about ushering the wet and shivering stranger into 
the drawing-room fire, if the master had been at home, 
he was sorely troubled how to act when two lonely 
women and a helpless boy constituted the whole gar- 
rison. 

“ How I know he won’ steal my silver spoons to- 
night ?” asked Gus of himself, as he stood there eyeing 
the generous proportions of the traveler, thinking how 
easy it would be for him to do anything he chose. But 
just as the stranger was opening his mouth to enter a 
protest against such halting hospitality, the drawing- 


MAN'S EXTREMITY— GOD' S OPPORTUNITY. 


265 


room door opened, and Bertha Lombard stood there, 
framed in the doorway, with the glowing warmth of 
the drawing-room for a background. 

“ Ah,’’ said the gentleman, stepping forward, as if 
pleased to find some one more civilized than Grus to 
treat with. “ Excuse my intrusion, young lady, but 
I have just met with a mishap which will prevent my 
proceeding farther to-night, and I must beg shelter 
from you, which is something I am afraid our sable 
friend here is inclined to refuse me.” 

“ Oh, Gus !” said Bertha, with a little reproachful 
smile. 

“ You see, missy,” said the boy, respectfully but 
apologetically, “as Mars’ John and miss was bof 
gone, I thought as how you mout’n like to have no 
visitors, — dat was what was de matter; I hope de 
strange gentleman will ’sense *me.” And, closing the 
front door, Gus locked it for the night, while Bertha 
ushered the stranger into the warm, bright drawing- 
room. 

After having greeted Miss Chevreul with a stately, 
somewhat old-fashioned bow, the gentleman seated 
himself close to the bright fire, where, drawing off his 
gloves and unbuttoning his overcoat, he proceeded to 
make himself comfortable. 

Bertha discovered, by the glare .of the lamp, that 
her guest was by no means a young man. For he 
had a great bald place on top of his head, and the 
hair that fringed it round was a grizzly gray, as were 
his thick and bushy whiskers; a pair of keenly intelli- 
gent blue eyes peered out from beneath his shaggy 
brows, taking minute and accurate note of everything 
that came in their way. His mouth was large, and 
full of firm white teeth, and wore a smile of kindly be- 
nevolence that irresistibly preposessed one in his favor. 
After he had made himself thoroughly comfortable, he 
drew from his right-hand pocket a card, which he 
handed to. Bertha, with a good-natured smile, as he 
said, — 


23 * 


266 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


“ I want you to satisfy yourself, my dear young 
lady, as to the respectability of the stranger you have 
taken in so unquestioningly.” 

The card bore the name of “ Dr. Charles Gardiner.’’ 

“Oh, I hope,” said Bertha, quickly, “that you will 
excuse our poor Gus for his overzeal, and believe me 
that you are very, very welcome.” 

“ I admire him for it, my dear, — I admire it in him,” 
said the strange doctor, briskly. Then he went into a 
detailed and amusing account of his accident, and then 
he informed the young ladies of his destination, the 
plantation of a friend, who lived in an adjoining inland 
parish, and passed from subject to subject in the most 
easy and self-possessed fashion. But all the time he 
was talking, Bertha was thinking, thinking of the God- 
sent opportunity to get advice, disinterested advice, as to 
her cousin’s case, from a man whose whole bearing and 
style of conversation betokened mind and cultivation. 

Long before she had politely handed him a bedroom- 
candle and indicated to him that Gus would show him 
his apartment, she had resolved to be up very early in 
the morning and try to have an interview with this 
Dr. Gardiner. 

After the stranger had left the room. Miss Chevreul 
leaned over and picked up the card which Miss Lom- 
bard had thrown on a table near at hand. 

“ Dr. Gardiner 1” she exclaimed, in a voice of recog- 
nition. 

“You know him, then?” said Bertha, eagerly. 

“ Not personally,” replied the governess. “1 only 
know of him as one of the most eminent members of 
the medical faculty in our city.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad !” exclaimed Bertha, unguardedly. 

“ Glad !” echoed Miss Chevreul. “ Why ?” 

“ Nothing,” said deceitful Bertha, demurely, “ only 
it is a satisfaction to know one is extending hospitality 
to a gentleman and not a rowdy.” 

And then they bade each other good-night and went 
their separate ways. 


DISINTERESTED ADVICE. 


26 T 


CHAPTER XXXYIL 

DISINTERESTED ADVICE. 

I MUST be up very, very early, thought Bertha, as 
she gave a final “snuggle” to obtain a perfectly com- 
fortable position under the blankets, for these learned 
men, and eminent physicians, and sanitary theorists 
are fearfully early risers. I often wond'er why they 
take the trouble to go to bed at all, and if they ever do 
sleep, anyhow, which was the last wonder that puzzled 
the brain of our young conspirator that night, for she 
was very soon sleeping as sweetly and soundly as an 
infant. 

So deep an impression did her resolution to rise 
very, very early make upon her mind, that she was 
fully awake at early dawn. 

As soon as her fire was made, she was up, and, 
making a very rapid toilet, she proceeded to the small 
apartment adjoining the family dining-room, which was 
used as the morning sitting-room. 

Before leaving her chamber, however, she had gone 
to the locked closet, where was stored away the de- 
canter of tonic so fraudulently obtained, and, taking it 
with her to the sitting-room, she placed it and a wine- 
glass on the mantel-piece ; having done which, and 
stirred up the fire, and blown a little speck of dust off 
the mantel-shelf, she seated herself to wait with im- 
patient patience for the appearance of the strange 
physician. 

He came in very soon, looking the impersonation of 
vigorous health and cheerful benevolence. Cordial 
morning greetings were exchanged between the young 
hostess and her guest, whose keen blue eyes were scan- 
ning her sweet young face and fresh morning attire 
with pleasure and admiration. 


268 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


Bertha expressed a polite hope that he had spent a 
comfortable night. 

“ Most comfortable, thank you,” replied the stranger ; 
“and now, my dear young lady, may I inquire if you 
make a regular practice of rising this early every morn- 
ing ?” 

“ Ah,” said Bertha, with a bright smile, “you think 
you have found a rai'a avis to describe in your next 
sanitary lecture, — a young lady fond of early rising. But 
truth compels me to acknowledge, Dr. Gardiner, that I 
am up earlier than usual this morning with a motive.” 
And Bertha looked frankly up into the benevolent face 
of the stranger, as he towered above her, standing with 
his back to the fire, playing with his watch-guard. 

“A still greater phenomenon!” said Dr. Gardiner. 
“A young lady with a motive !” 

“ And pray, doctor, do not the young ladies where 
you came from have motives ?” 

“Not often, my dear, — not often; at least none 
powerful enough to get them out of bed before sun- 
rise.” 

“ Ah, you are speaking of city women, who have no 
other way of disposing of daylight but by sleeping it 
away.” 

“ I am not speaking of women at all,” said the man 
of science, dryly. “I am speaking of dolUbabies and 
butterflies.” 

“ Then your sarcasms are totally unmerited,” said 
Bertha, saucily; “for doll-babies have no call to get 
up at all, and who ever caught a butterfly in bed after 
sunrise ?” 

“ Defend your sex, defend your sex I” said the phy- 
sician, laughingly. “I never saw a woman yet that 
appreciated a compliment paid herself at the expense 
of her sex.” 

“But, Dr. Gardiner,” said Bertha, “to return; my 
motive in rising so early is connected with yourself.” 

“ With me, young lady ? Why, then, bless my soul, 
child, state it! state it !” 


DISINTERESTED ADVICE, 269 

“ Doctor,’’ said the young girl, fixing an earnest, 
steadfast gaze upon his kindly smiling face, “ you have 
a good, kind face, and if faces are really good indices 
to hearts yours must be a truly benevolent one.” 

“Oho!” replied the doctor, good-humoredly, “your 
motive, then, in rising before the sun was to turn 
an old man’s head with a pretty compliment, was 
it?” 

“ No,” said the young girl, so seriously that her guest 
became correspondingly grave. “ But I am about to 
do something so peculiar, that I wanted to satisfy my- 
self beforehand that you would be good and help me, 
instead of pooh-poohing me down for a crack-brained 
girl, as some people would do in your place.” 

“As for ‘pooh-poohing you down,’ my dear, I can- 
not answer for that beforehand, for my duty as a man 
and physician may imperatively demand such a pro- 
ceeding,” replied Dr. Gardiner, jestingly ; “ but I am 
very sure that you are not a crack-brained girl, and am 
prepared to give you my most sage advice and counsel 
sweet.” 

He had seated himself now, and his eyes were fixed 
upon the face of the young girl opposite him with an 
expression of interest and kind encouragement. 

Bertha rose suddenly, and, reaching down the de- 
canter and wineglass she had placed in readiness, 
she extended them toward the physician, saying, ab- 
ruptly, — 

“ Dr. Gardiner, what is this ?” 

Dr. Gardiner glanced at the decanter, and then at 
the young girl, in unmitigated surprise ; then he smelt 
at the contents of it, then he poured a small quantity 
into the wineglass Bertha held out for him, and, having 
taken a slight taste, he replied, promptly, — 

“It is absinthe, miss.” 

“ What is absinthe, doctor ?” asked ignorant Bertha. 

“Well, my dear young lady,” began the stranger, 
growing slightly sententious, as the best of men will 
when playing Solomon for the benefit of a young and 


2T0 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


beautiful woman, “ absinthe is a wine of the most 
pernicious character. It has been very appropriately 
styled by some one, ‘the opium of the West.’ It de- 
rives its name from one of the various plants which 
are made use of in its composition, absinthe simply 
meaning wormwood, the botanical artemisia absin- 
thium. Other plants, such as flag-root, angelica-root, 
the leaves of the dittany, and a few others, of highly 
exciting qualities, are macerated, and placed in high- 
proof alcohol ; but, I presume, you are not particularly 
interested in the modus operandi ; you only wished to 
know what absinthe was, I believe.” 

“ How does it affect people, doctor ?” asked the 
young girl, who seemed deeply interested in his de- 
scription of the liquor. 

“Its immediate effects are delightfully stimulating, 
which, in fact, is the cause of its baleful popularity,” 
replied the physician. 

“What is absinthe good for. Dr. Gardiner?” was 
Bertha’s next inquiry, in a carefully careless voice. 

“ Its friends would tell you, my dear, that it was 
most excellent as an appetizer. Its enemies, among 
whom I am most proud to rank myself, would tell you 
that it is excellent to produce insanity, to blunt the 
memory, and eventually cause death ; it is, in short, 
the best brutalizer known.” 

“Are you certain, Dr. Gardiner, that that is ab- 
sinthe in that bottle ?” asked Bertha, in whose large 
eyes a strange light gleamed, while in either cheek a 
bright red spot burned, a sure sign with her of great 
internal agitation. 

“As certain as I am that there is a very skeptical 
young lady standing before me, who dares question, 
both with her tongue and a pair of big bright eyes, the 
wisdom of years and experience.” And, with a good- 
humored smile, the stranger handed the decanter and 
glass back to her. 

In silence Bertha replaced them upon the mantel- 
shelf; then she turned again to the stranger with 
another question, — 


DISIN TE RESTED AD VICE. 211 

“ Insanity and loss of memory, you say, are some 
of its effects ?” 

“If the use of it is persevered in long enough such 
will inevitably be the results,’’ said the man of science, 
positively. 

“ Then, doctor, if you had a patient who was suf- 
fering from no apparent ailment but intense depression 
of spirits, was, in fact, almost melancholy mad, would 
you recommend absinthe for a tonic for him ?” 

“ Not unless I wished to kill him by slow poison,” 
was the answer, which came promptly and decidedly. 

Bertha gave an involuntary start. The red on her 
cheeks burned redder, and her eyes actually scintil- 
lated with suppressed wrath and indignation ; but she 
remained perfectly silent for a few moments, then once 
more she turned to her guest, saying, — 

“ Dr. Gardiner, I know what I am going to say will 
seem very, very strange to you ; but please don’t 
think of the peculiarity of my conduct, only look upon 
me as an ignorant girl, who is in a sore strait, and 
who comes to you for counsel and advice, because the 
world does not hold one human being to whom she 
can turn in this the hour of her great extremity.” 

Touched by her earne.stness. Dr. Gardiner replied, 
very gravely, — 

“ I have already promised you, my dear young lady, 
to assist you to the very best of my ability, and I beg 
you to confide in me as freely as you would in a father. 
God helping me, you shall never have cause to regret 
your confidence.” 

“Ah!” said Bertha, with humid eyes, “my dear 
father was a physician, too, and if he had lived I need 
not now have been appealing to a perfect stranger for 
advice.” 

“ Then,” said the stranger, “ it becomes my duty, as 
well as my pleasure, to assist you all in my power, 
my dear young lady. You have claims on me, as the 
child of a brother physician, so pray speak out with- 
out any hesitation.” 


272 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Thus encouraged, Bertha did speak out bravely and 
fearlessly, — 

“ I think Grod sent you here to me. Dr. Gardiner. 
Your extremity was his opportunity. Your broken 
carriage will be mended by the time you have eaten 
your breakfast, and you will get into it and go away, 
and will, in all probability, never see this place or me 
again ; but before you go you will have it in your 
power to do great and incalculable good to a fellow- 
creature. You will see at the breakfast-table, this 
morning, a young man whom I beg you to notice 
very closely. He is my cousin, and I love him very 
dearly. If the wisdom you say you have acquired by 
years and experience be really worth anything, oh, 
bring it to bear upon my poor cousin ! You will have 
but a slight opportunity for observation ; but I wish 
you to tell me, from what you can see, whether his 
sad case appears a hopeless one, and tell me what I 
can do to save him.’’ 

Then hurriedly and graphically she sketched for him 
a picture of Ralph Barrow as he was before he went 
away, and his present contrasting condition, with its 
various fluctuations. She carefully avoided mentioning 
his stepfather’s name, or her own suspicions, for if she 
could work Ralph’s salvation without implicating the 
character of her aunt’s husband, of course she would 
prefer doing so. 

In the long course of his practice as a city physician. 
Dr. Gardiner had become so familiarized with sorrow 
and mystery, in every shape, that the young girl’s 
words did not seem half so thrillingly mystifying in 
his ears as they did in her own, poor child I all unused 
as she was to sin in any form, or to dark and guilty 
secrets. 

He had formed his own theory relative to the darkly- 
hinted-at case of the young man he was to see long 
before his loving advocate had half-way done describ- 
ing his pitiful condition. 

“ Some handsome scamp,” was the physician’s men- 


DISINTERESTED ADVICE. 


2'73 


tal decision, “ who has drunk himself into a brute, and 
this pretty thing, who loves him as women will love 
handsome scamps, is trying to make a man of him 
again from which you will see that Bertha’s dark 
mystery had not inspired the man of the world with a 
grain of awe or horrified anticipation. 

Miss Chevreul’s consternation and Gus’s open- 
mouthed astonishment reached their acme when Bertha 
gave authoritative orders for the breakfast-table to be 
set for four, and set in the family breakfast-room. “We 
will all breakfast together,” she said, in conclusion. 

“ Mars’ Ralphy, too, missy ?” asked Gus, making 
exclamation points with his eyebrows, as if doubtful of 
having understood his orders correctly. 

“ I believe you heard me say lay four plates I” said 
Miss Lombard, who could be very lofty when occasion 
called for loftiness. 

“Yes, missy,” said Gus, respectfully. Then he 
hurried out to inform Richard, the cook, with a chuckle, 
“ that if mars’ doctor didn’t watch out, missy’d show 
him yit I” which may sound somewhat cabalistical to 
you, reader, but was perfectly clear to Richard, who 
replied that 

“ Miss Berthy was jis’ like her grandma Snowe, 
anyhow, — all sperit and spunk, an’ had more sense in 
two ov her leetle fingers than ary three men he’d ever 
seen yit.” 

When breakfast was announced, Bertha went to her 
cousin’s sitting-room, and, slipping her arm through 
his, she led him toward the large dining-room. 

“ Cousin,” she said, as they went along, “ we have 
a strange gentleman to breakfast with us this morn- 
ing, and I want you to do the honors of your own 
table.” 

“ Yes,” said Ralph, with a smile of childish pleasure. 
“ Who is he ?” 

“A stranger, whose carriage broke down last night, 
and he came here to beg shelter.” 

By this time they were in the dining-room, and 
24 


274 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Bertha introduced the unfortunate heir of Aland with 
great empressement to their visitor. 

Dr. Gardiner shook hands with him cordially, speak- 
ing to him in a loud, brisk tone of voice, which com- 
pelled his attention, and addressing to him just such 
remarks as he would to a man in full possession of all 
his faculties. After they were seated at the table, the 
physician began asking him a variety of questions 
relative to the topography of the neighborhood, the 
names of the different places, their owners, etc. ; then 
he rambled on to a general discussion of horses and 
dogs, winding up by expressing his admiration for a 
fine gray horse he had noticed in the stable-yard that 
morning. 

Bertha was filled with astonishment and delight at 
the aptness of her cousin’s replies, and the evident in- 
terest he took in every word the physician said. Some- 
times his answers would be very slow coming, he 
evidently pausing to take in fully what had been said 
to him, but the information he gave was perfectly ac- 
curate. 

One thing in Dr. Gardiner’s manners toward her 
cousin particularly struck the young girl. He totally 
ignored the presumption that he was an incapable, — 
treated him and talked to him just as he would have 
done if he had been the soundest man in the world. 
‘‘Ah,” thought Bertha, “ I was right, then, when I used 
to beg them not to treat him like an escaped lunatic!” 

At the close of the meal Bertha led the way back 
into the sitting-room without asking Ralph to accom- 
pany them, for she was wildly eager to hear an ex- 
pression of Dr. Gardiner’s opinion. Miss Chevreul 
retired as usual to her own room. 

“ Well,” said Bertha, quickly, “ what do you think 
of him, doctor ? Is his case hopeless ?” 

“ My opportunity for observation has been so slight, 
my dear young lady, that it would be hazardous for 
me to pass a decided opinion on your cousin’s case ; 
but I honestly see no reason to doubt his ultimate re- 


DISINTERESTED ADVICE. 


275 


covery if the right course be pursued. I infer, from 
the strictly sensible answers he returned to my ques- 
tions, that his mental faculties are rather benumbed 
than destroyed.” 

‘‘ Then he is not mad ?” 

At present he certainly is not ; but, unless properly 
treated, he will undoubtedly become so. He needs to 
be aroused.” 

“ How is it to be done ?” 

“ I should suggest cheerful, but not exciting, amuse- 
ments. Merry companions of his own age and sex.” 

“ Would music hurt him. Dr. Gardiner?” interrupted 
Miss Lombard, eagerly. 

“ On the contrary, if he used to like it, I should un- 
hesitatingly recommend it.” 

The bright eyes of Bertha sparkled with triumph. 

“ The music 1 can supply, but the cheerful compan- 
ions of his own age and sex are utterly unprocurable,” 
she said. 

Dr. Gardiner had been drawing on his gloves pre- 
paratory to taking his leave as he spoke, and now 
he stood before the fire evidently plunged in deep 
thought. 

“Miss Lombard,” he said, finally, “I have care- 
fully abstained from asking you any questions, but 
one or two I must ask if I am to do your cousin any 
good.” 

“ Certainly, doctor; what are they?” 

“ Who are the young man’s legal guardians ?” 

“ His mother and his stepfather.” 

“ Who is his stepfather ?” 

“Dr. Reynard, sir,” said Bertha, wondering what 
that had to do with Ralph’s case. 

“Reynard?” said Dr. Gardiner, knitting his brows 
curiously. “ John Reynard?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Is he — was he originally from New Orleans ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; I think he was.” 

“Humph I” muttered Dr. Gardiner, in an audible 


2T6 


BEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


undertone, “ as d His proposed sentence died of 

a cough. 

“ Sir 

“ Nothing, my dear,’’ for he could not tell her he had 
anathematized Dr. John Reynard as a some-sort-of-a 
scoundrelly puppy, who could not look an honest man 
in the face, so he merely said “ nothing.” Presently he 
spoke again : 

“ I was about to say, before you told me who the 
young man’s guardian was, that if you would present 
him my card on his return, with my compliments, and 
ask him to send his stepson on a visit to my house for 
a month or two, I would guarantee that my three boys 
should have him himself again in less than three 
months; but ” 

“ But what ?” asked Bertha, eagerly, as he paused. 

Dr. Gardiner eyed her keenly for a moment without 
replying. 

“ But what ?” repeated the young girl, impatiently. 

You look like a girl who held her own opinions, 
Miss Lombard. What is your opinion of your cousin’s 
stepfather ? Do not be afraid to answer truthfully.” 

“ I do not like him, sir,” said the young girl, frankly 
and truthfully. 

“ Neither do I,” replied the physician, bluntly. 

“You know him, then?” 

“ Yes, I know him,” was the dryly significant reply; 
“and what is much more to the point, he does not like 
me ; so you see no invitation from me would be favora- 
bly received.” 

“Dr. Gardiner, my cousin is of age,” said Bertha, 
significantly ; “ he has a perfect right to visit where and 
whom he pleases.” 

“ So he has, so he has,” said the physician, amused 
at the feminine quickness which had settled the diffi- 
culty over which he had stumbled. “ Well, then, my 
dear, play your sweetest music to your cousin ; keep 
that decanter from him, and as soon as he is able to 
leave home give him this card, on which he will find 


REBELLIO US PR 0 CEEDINGS. 


m 

my address, and tell him that he will always find my 
doors open to him and a hearty welcome awaiting him.’’ 

A fervent “ thank you,” was all Bertha could find 
expression for. 

“ Ah !” she murmured, “ I have entertained an angel 
unawares.” And she looked up into his face with brim- 
ming eyes. 

“ A fallen one, my dear, — a fallen one. God bless 
you, and good-by.” And with a hearty hand-shake 
Bertha’s powerful ally took his departure. 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

REBELLIOUS PROCEEDINGS. 

John Reynard sneered at love, laughed it to scorn, 
spat upon it, condemned it as the weakness of fools 
and of women ; and it was a retribution most meet and 
just that his deep-laid plans were doomed to utter 
frustration through love’s potent agency. Bertha 
Lombard’s love for her unfortunate cousin made her 
powerful in cunning and resistless in determination. The 
unhappy young^man’s unconscious love for the “beauti- 
ful lady” made him docilely tractable in her hands 
alone, thereby assisting her every effort, 

Rosine Chevreul’s passionate adoration for the bright, 
brave girl, who was all she herself most ardently longed 
to be, rendered her useless as a tool for Bertha’s antag- 
onist, and converted her into an unconscious ally. Her 
perfect love for Bertha was casting out her fear of John 
Reynard. She reconciled her own conduct easily to 
her conscience. 

Dr. Reynard’s regimen was believed by Bertha to 
24 * 


218 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


be faulty, — she only asked an opportunity to prove it. 
In three weeks much harm could not be done. At the 
end of that time Bertha had promised to let the old 
order of things be resumed if no good effects were ap- 
parent. Dr. Reynard would join in thanking her if 
Bertha’s loving heart should prove wiser than his cool 
head. So, although she did not feel perfectly com- 
fortable in thus disobeying orders, she regarded her 
fault lightly, as one of those acts which is gauged en- 
tirely by its result, pronounced worthy of all praise, if 
success attend it ; punished as a grave misdemeanor, 
if failure be the finale. 

On the same day upon which Dr. Gardiner had 
breakfasted at Aland the absinthe question was set- 
tled forever. Toward noon a heavy fall of rain began, 
and a cold northwest wind was blowing fiercely, ren- 
dering the passage of the galleries extremely uncom- 
fortable. Miss Chevreul, Bertha, and Ralph were all 
seated around a brightly blazing fire in the small dining- 
room ; the former reading, while Ralph sat patiently 
holding a skein of bright-colored worsted for Bertha to 
wind. She was talking to him eagerly and brightly, 
questioning principally, her interrogatories wandering 
over a wide area in the past, touching upon subjects 
she thought most likely to have remained impressed 
upon a boyish memory. To her delight he gave her 
almost universally correct replies. 

Miss Chevreul, laying down her book, and rising 
from her chair, attracted Bertha’s attention, and inter- 
rupted her conversation. 

“ Where are you going. Miss Rosine ?” she asked. 

“ To the store-room, dear,” said Miss Chevreul, 
drawing her shawl closer around her, and coughing as 
she spoke. “ Your cousin’s bottle of tonic is empty, 
and I wish to get a fresh one.” 

“ Where is it kept?” asked Bertha, eagerly, jumping 
up as she spoke, for she had been waiting for this very 
moment. “ Let me go and get it for you, it is so cold, 
and your cough is so troublesome to-day, that you shall 


REBELLIO US PR 0 CEE DINGS. 


2*79 


not stir from your chair unless for your own comfort.’’ 
And with gentle force she pressed Rosine back into her 
seat. 

“ You are too good to me, Bertha, dear, — far too 
good,” said Rosine, and her sad, brown eyes filled 
with tears, which she brushed hastily away with her 
wasted hand. 

“ Where is the tonic, dear? — I shall go and get it my- 
self; but you mustn’t call me good for not wanting 
any one with such a cough to go running round on 
such a day.” 

“ It is in the locked pantry at the other end of the 
gallery, Bertha ; it is in a wooden box, setting next to 
a candle-box; the bottles are all labeled ‘tonic.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Bertha, with tightly-compressed lips, 
“ tonic, — I shall find them. I could find them in the dark 
with such minute directions,” she added, more lightly ; 
for it was no part of her scheme to take Miss Chevreul 
into her confidence any more than Gus. Her reason 
for this was that she wished neither the timid French- 
woman nor her aunt’s slave to suffer in the remotest 
degree for what she should alone be held responsible 
for. Hence to keep them profoundly ignorant of her 
intentions was the way best to shield them from the 
wrath to come. She took the key to the locked pantry 
and traveled swiftly along the wet and slippery gallery. 
Entering, she closed the door after her. She soon had 
the box of absinthe singled out from its neighbors, and 
drawing the sliding wooden lid off, she glanced around 
in search of some missile of destruction. A pair of 
household scales, with removable iron weights, stood 
on the shelf above, immediately over the box contain- 
ing the bottles. A slight inclination from a daring 
little hand and the whole apparatus came crashing in 
upon the frail bottles, reducing the entire contents of 
the box to a conglomerate mass of wet straw, dis- 
placed stoppers, and broken glass. . That was easy 
enough, soliloquized the young girl, but the consequent 
explanatory fib will be harder. 


280 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


Having accomplished the work of destruction to her 
satisfaction, she left the pantry and proceeded to the 
large dining-room, where she rapidly concocted a mix- 
ture from an egg, some white sugar, some rich cream, 
and the best of brandy, grating a little nutmeg on the 
top of the fragrant decoction. She retraced her steps to 
the small sitting-room to offer it as a substitute for the 
lost tonic. 

“ Why, what kept you so long ?” asked Miss Chev- 
reul, in surprise, as Bertha opened the door. 

“ I’ve been preparing a substitute,” said the young 
girl, carelessly ; “ an accident has happened to cousin’s 
entire box of tonic. In some way aunt’s scales, that she 
uses in her cake-making, have been tumbled into the 
box, breaking every bottle.” 

There, thought Bertha, that is the truth, and nothing 
but the truth, if it is not the whole truth. I’m not 
called on to state that I was the some-way. 

Oh, terrible I” exclaimed Miss Chevreul, who be- 
longed to that extensive class of females who use the 
most energetic expressions of fright and horror at the 
slightest domestic mischance. 

“ Terrible, is a strong word for the breaking of a 
few bottles,” said Bertha, coolly, as she offered her sub- 
stitute to her cousin. 

“ Yes, but your cousin’s tonic, Bertha dear ?” 

“ I will answer for it, my dear Miss Chevreul, that 
my cousin shall not suffer by the accident. See,” she 
continued, “ how immensely he enjoys my cream egg- 
nog. Grandpa used to make me prepare him one just 
that way every morning, and he said that dear papa 
had recommended him to take one every morning, as 
it was a great strengthener and fattener, and you know. 
Miss Rosine, papa was a physician himself.” This 
with a proud little air of confidence in the wisdom 
of the parent who had been taken from her so long 
ago. 

“ Yes, my dear ; but I think in the matter of this 
medicine it will be but right for me to inform your 


RE BELL 10 US PR 0 CE ED IN OS. 


281 


uncle that the supply has been accidentally destroyed, 
so that he may send me up a fresh supply.’’ 

“Just as you please,” said Bertha, indifferently ; 
mentally adding, but that letter shall never reach its 
destination. 

Miss Chevreul wrote the letter that night, and 
placed it, as was the custom of the house, in a small 
leathern satchel that hung by Dr. Reynard’s desk in 
the library. Bertha, coming in a few moments after 
to deposit a letter of her own, extracted Miss Chev- 
reul’s, and, with a trembling hand, threw it into the 
blazing fire. A deep blush suffused her face at this, 
the first one of her acts that had savored of meanness. 

“Stern necessity demands it,” she murmured, “for 
your dear sake, my precious Ralph.” 

The three weeks of probation was at an end. Ber- 
tha had promised Miss Chevreul if, at the expiration 
of that time, the improvement in her cousin should 
not be so decided as to be apparent even to herself, 
she would discontinue her ministrations, and let the 
old daily routine be resumed. On the evening in ques- 
tion Ralph had retired to his rooms in a more equa- 
bly cheerful state than ever before. Bertha had 
played for him a long time herself, and then she had 
cunningly contrived a fresh amusement for him. 

Years before, Ralph, when quite a boy, had organ- 
ized what he called his minstrel band. Composed of 
some half-dozen highly musical black boys, whom he 
had provided with violins, tambourines, banjos, and 
“ bones.” They had become passable performers in 
the course of time, and when they would collect 
around their cabin-doors of evenings and play some 
of their wild, sweet melodies, the music was of no 
mean order. 

Bertha sent orders for them to come and play for 
their young master on this evening, and the summons 
was obeyed with alacrity. She had been afraid to try 
this experiment at first, for the music they made could 


282 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


hardly be termed soothing, but as Dr. Gardiner had 
said he needed arousing, she thought she might ven- 
ture. 

The experiment had proved highly successful, Ralph 
evidently enjoying the rattling measures excessively, 
and recognizing the performers individually. When 
Bertha, fearful of prolonging the excitement too long, 
told them kindly that they had played quite long 
enough ; her cousin, slipping his hand into his pocket, 
as was his boyish wont, pulled out a quantity of small 
silver pieces and distributed them among them. With 
a “thankee, little master, and God bless you,” they 
shouldered their instruments and returned to their 
quarters. But the good effects of their homely music 
remained behind and added their mites toward 
strengthening the torpid faculties of the heir of Aland. 

“And now, Miss Chevreul, I am ready to receive 
orders from you,” began Bertha, when the two were 
left alone. “ I promised you if at the end of three 
weeks Cousin Ralph had not improved perceptibly, 
that I would acknowledge that I was wrong and Dr. 
Reynard right. Has he improved, or has he not?” 

“ I think, my dear, no one could fail to see the im- 
provement in him,” was the ready reply. 

“Is he more cheerful, or less so?” asked Bertha, 
who had prepared a little catechism, and was not to be 
cheated out of it by generalities. 

“ He is more so,” replied the catechised. 

“ Is his appetite the better, or the worse, for the sub- 
stitution of cream eggnogs for ab — tonic ?” 

“ I can see nothing to complain of, my dear, on the 
score of his appetite.” 

“ Does Hiram report his nights as being quieter, or 
more restless latterly than formerly?” 

“ Why, Bertha, you heard what he said as well as 
I did, my child. He said that his master had been 
sleeping better for the last week than at any time be- 
fore since his return home.” 

“ One more question, mam’selle ; don’t get impa- 


REBELL 10 US PR 0 CEEDINGS. 


283 


tient. You told me yourself that Dr. Gardiner was 
one of the most eminent medical men in your city. 
My aunt’s husband was also a physician there, before 
he married her. Which of the two stands highest in 
your estimation as physicians?” 

Rosine Chevreul reddened and remained silent. 

“ You need not be afraid to speak out plainly, Miss 
Rosine,” said Bertha, mistaking the cause of her evi- 
dent confusion. “ I have no love for my stepuncle, to 
be wounded by a verdict unfavorable to his preten- 
sions.” 

“ I presume Dr. Gardiner stands the highest,” said 
the Frenchwoman, hastily, anxious to get over this 
part of the catechism. 

“ Well, then, my dear old teacher, to ease you of the 
last qualm you maybe suffering as to the propriety or 
impropriety of my proceedings, let me tell you that 
they have Dr. Gardiner’s full sanction.” 

“ What!” exclaimed Miss Chevreul, quickly and sus- 
piciously. ‘‘ Did you send for Dr. Gardiner to examine 
your cousin’s case in the absence of the family ?” 

Bertha laughed at this wild conjecture. “ No, 
mam’selle,” she presently said, “ I had never even 
heard of Dr. Gardiner’s existence before he happened 
here the other night; but I certainly did describe Cousin 
Ralph’s case to him, and ask him to notice him closely, 
and tell me what course of treatment he would suggest.” 

“ Oh, Bertha, you are a daring girl I” said Miss 
Chevreul, half reproachfully half admiringly. 

Bertha’s only reply was a light laugh, and then she 
asked, — 

‘‘ Well, am I to continue my attendance, or do you 
wish me to retire into solitary confinement once more ?” 
The young girl spoke lightly, for her heart was full of 
new-born hope and buoyant with the prospect of 
Ralph’s recovery. 

“ Why, my dear child, 1 think if your uncle was at 
home he would be the first to acknowledge how suc- 
cessful your efforts have been.” 


284 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ Maybe so,” interpolated Bertha. 

“ And, therefore, I can see no reason for asking you 
to discontinue them. I shall have to write to Dr. 
Raynard to-morrow,” she continued. 

“ Why ?” asked Bertha, quickly. 

“ Because he told me, my dear, that if there was any 
change at all in Mr. Barrow’s condition I was to notify 
him by letter, and there has been such a decided 
change for the better that it will give me great pleasure 
to inform him of it.” 

Another letter to intercept, thought Bertha ; how I 
do hate that part of it, it does seem so very small a 
meanness ! I rather enjoy outwitting Dr. Reynard in 
other ways, but this thing of stealing letters is a de-- 
testable necessity. 

So Miss Chevreul wrote another letter to Dr. Rey- 
nard, which Bertha consigned to the flames, as before, 
while Dr. Reynard was left in blissful ignorance that he 
was about to be outwitted by a slight, girlish creature, 
whom he could have crushed physically with one hard 
blow. 

The position in which the self-made man found him- 
self at this particular juncture was somewhat trying, 
to say the least of it. His role of model stepfather had 
necessitated his introducing his stepdaughter into the 
gay world, and he knew enough of the gay world not 
to trust to its disinterestedness where a wealthy young 
heiress was concerned. Innumerable suitors had al- 
ready appeared for her hand ; and, if he were to leave 
the field, for ever so short a time, some of the needy 
adorers would whisk her right off before the nice young 
man could say Jack Robinson. Therefore, while he 
skillfully maintained an appearance of perfect indif- 
ference as to Helen’s choice of a husband, and treated 
all of her adorers with the most distinguished cour- 
tesy, he just as skillfully contrived that they, one after 
another, received a polite “no” when they so ardently 
pleaded for a sweet “yes.” 

To leave Helen was plainly out of the question ; and. 


RE BELL 10 US PR 0 CEE DINGS. 


285 


as he was not blessed with ubiquity, to be with Ralph 
was as plainly out of the question. The worst that 
could happen in that quarter, however, would be Ber- 
tha talking and playing to him, and all she could do in 
three months he could easily undo in as many weeks ; 
but, in order to keep himself posted as to the progress 
of the young girl’s counter-machinations, he had left 
strict orders that any change, whether for the better or 
the worse, should be reported to him by letter ; and it 
had been so reported, with what success we have seen. 

That his plans promised to go aglee was certainly 
not his fault. For how could he imagine that Bertha 
Lombard’s daring fingers would tamper with the vile 
compound that he looked upon as his most powerful 
ally ? or how could he imagine that a man at the head 
of the city faculty should be called miles and miles 
into the country to attend a wealthy old personal 
friend, and, returning to the river, be compelled, by an 
accident, to take shelter at Aland, and thus give Ber- 
tha an opportunity to procure disinterested and learned 
advice ? Or how much less could he imagine that the 
almost slavish obedience of the woman whom he had 
kept at Aland for a tool should succumb to the purify- 
ing effects of a better and higher love, and render her 
useless to him as a tool ? With all his getting, John 
Reynard had not gotten wisdom enough to foresee all 
these counter-chances. 

Yerily, verily, the way of the transgressor is hard. 


25 


286 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES, 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 

The next difficulty that confronted Bertha Lombard 
in her self-appointed task was the very serious one of 
getting Ralph off on a visit to Dr. Gardiner before the 
family should return. 

She was well aware that her only hope of working 
a cure in the poor boy lay in sending him away from 
Aland, and she was equally well aware that an end 
would be put to her own active operations so soon as 
Dr. Reynard should return ; therefore, all that she 
was to do must be done in the absence of the family 
and without the authority of either of his legal guar- 
dians. 

“ Ah, how strange,” she murmured, as she was 
pondering this troublesome question in the privacy of 
her own room, — “ how strange that I dare not confide 
in his own mother, and tell her what so eminent a 
physician says ! But she would only pronounce me 
crazy, too, and tell me coldly that she thinks I am 
overstepping the limits of propriety in offering an 
opinion or giving advice which conflicts with her hus- 
band’s. She has such absolute faith in him that if I 
were to bring her positive proofs of his treachery, she 
would turn from me with that freezing dignity of hers, 
and tell me she really could not allow me so to malign 
so excellent a husband and stepfather. She is so cruelly 
cold she thinks poor Ralph has disgraced himself and 
his family, and so he is well fed and housed that is all 
she cares. Oh, I wonder what she is made of? I 
wonTier if she and precious mamma were really born of 
the same parents ? And Helen— no help there either, 
my poor Ralph ; no, what I am to do I must do en- 


A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 


287 


tirely unaided, for they are for him and against us. 
But all the brooding in the world is not going to help 
me solve the difficulty of how to release him from this 
prison So, springing up, and brushing away the 
tears that had started while meditating on her cousin’s 
sad condition, Bertha left her own room and went in 
search of her cousin, to make a proposal to him which 
she had been considering some few days past. 

“ Cousin,” she said, coming behind him, as he sat 
broodingly over his sitting-room fire, and laying her 
soft little hands on his shoulders, “ what do you say 
to a horseback ride this evening ? The wet weather 
has put a stop to your walks, but wouldn’t you like to 
ride old gray, with Black Laura and myself for com- 
pany ?” 

Ralph’s sad eyes fairly sparkled with pleasure. 
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, “let us ride!” And he 
sprang up, with the impetuosity of a child, to' carry 
the proposition into immediate execution. 

“ Not yet,” said Bertha, smiling brightly at his glad 
eagerness, “it is very early in the morning, cousin. 
You know we have just finished breakfast, and I will 
have to tell Hiram to get the horses up from the lower 
pasture. We will go after dinner, and ride until sun- 
set.” 

“ Well,” said her cousin, docilely. And he seated 
himself, with a quietly-patient look on his sad face 
that made Bertha feel vastly like crying. 

“ You are sorry to wait, are you not, Ralphy dear ? 
But I will hurry Hiram and Richard and everybody.” 

“ I will wait, miss,” was the gentle reply, for Bertha 
was still to him a beautiful stranger, who was very 
kind to him, and very constant in her attentions, and 
whose presence was become an actual necessity for his 
peace of mind, but she was as yet nothing more. “ He 
loved the beautiful stranger,” he one day told Miss 
Chevreul, confidentially, “ because she talked to him so 
sweetly of his dear little Bertha, and kept promising 
him that Bertha should come to see him soon.” 


28S 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ But she is Bertha herself, Mr. Barrow,” Rosine had 
said, gently, endeavoring to establish the identity of 
the young girl. 

'' Oh, I know her name is Bertha, too !” replied the 
poor boy; “and I love her for that, too, and because 
her eyes are so like my little Bertha’s ; but my Bertha 
was a gay, laughing little mortal, and this beautiful 
lady’s face is so sad, so sad. She is very beautiful, 
very beautiful, but she is not my Bertha. But I can 
wait, I can wait.” And the wreck of Ralph Barrow 
would look pitifully wise and pathetically patient. 

It was given up after this that it was useless to try 
to establish Bertha’s identity, and he was allowed to 
address her, formally, as “ miss,” “young lady,” or in 
any other way his crazed fancy suggested. 

So Ralph and his unrecognized cousin took their 
horseback ride that evening, and came back with 
cheeks glowing and eyes sparkling from the invigorat- 
ing exercise. 

“We shall want the horses again to-morrow, Hiram,” 
Miss Lombard had said, as they dismounted on their 
return, and threw the reins into the boy’s hands. “ In 
fact, you may saddle them every evening until I give 
you a contrary order.” 

“ Your cousin seems to have enjoyed his ride vastly, 
Bertha,” Miss Chevreul remarked, as Bertha made her 
appearance in the sitting-room. 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ I am sure he did ; but as for 
myself, Miss Rosine, I am nearly frozen to death ; this 
thin alpaca habit is not half warm enough for such an 
evening.” 

“You should have a cloth jacket to wear over it,” 
suggested Rosine. 

“ That would be nice ; but where in the world is 
the cloth to be found?” 

“An old broadcloth coat would afford material suf- 
ficient, and I could fit you a close jacket, and help you 
make it in time for you ride to-morrow,” said Miss 
Chevreul, kindly. 


A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 


289 


“ You are a perfect jewel cried Bertha, enthusi- 
astically. “ I know I can find plenty of obsolete broad- 
cloth coats in the ‘depository,’ as we call aunt’s old 
lumber-room, and you know it is an understood thing 
that the contents of that room are free to any member 
of the family who can find therein any article suited 
to their necessities.” 

“Yes,” said Rosine, smiling, “I was thinking of the 
‘ depository’ when I spoke. The old cedar-chest, which 
stands in one corner of it, seems full of gentlemen’s 
cast-oflP clothes, and I am sure there must be some 
black coats among them.” 

So to the “ depository” Bertha went, candle in hand, 
and soon returned in triumphant possession of a broad- 
cloth coat of the cut of more than a decade previous, 
but admirably well suited to her purpose. 

“Eureka !” she exclaimed, merrily, holding it up for 
Rosine’s inspection. 

“It will answer admirably,” was the verdict passed 
upon it. 

“ Yes, but you are not to go to work on it to-night,” 
said Bertha, as Miss Chevreul extended her hand for it. 
“ You are to cut it and fit it, but I shall rip it up my- 
self, and have it all pressed out by the time you are 
ready for it to-morrow. ” And she passed on to her own 
chamber, and, depositing her prize on her work-table, 
she returned to the sitting-room, and applied herself to 
her usual evening’s task of amusing her cousin, in vari- 
ous ways, until his early bedtime. 

That night, after the three had separated and re- 
paired to their own apartments, Bertha drew her work- 
stand close to the fire, turned her lamp up higher, 
wheeled a chair close under it, and settled herself com- 
fortably to the task of ripping up the old coat. With 
nimble fingers and sharp scissors she. traveled rapidly 
from collar to sleeves, and from sleeves to binding, 
stirring up little clouds of fine dust that had accum^i- 
lated and rested undisturbed, in seams and corners, 
through many a changing year. Finally, the tattered 


290 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


silk lining was all that remained to be removed, and 
as Bertha dexterously separated it from the cloth, an 
unsealed envelope fell to the ground, which had evi- 
dently worked its way through the worn-out pocket 
of the coat, and found a resting-place between the 
cloth and the dining. As Bertha stooped over and 
picked it up a small slip of paper, carelessly folded, 
fluttered from it, and fell in its turn upon the rug. 

Bertha glanced at the envelope in her hand. It was 
addressed to “John Reynard, M.D., New Orleans, La.” 
The post-mark was entirely unfamiliar to her, and the 
date was indistinctly stamped. 

“ So this was his coat,” murmured Bertha, as she 
stooped to pick up the inclosure. It was quite a small 
piece of paper, apparently half of a half-sheet, and as 
Bertha mechanically turned to the side on which the 
few words it contained were written, the idle curiosity 
which had tempted the move was startled into active 
interest as the opening words caught her eye ; 

“lam dying, Paul, — dying, without afriend near me.” 

Bertha’s eye glanced from these pitiful words to the 
signature ; it was Otis Barrow’s. She gave a start of 
pained surprise ; then she went back and read the 
whole of it : 

“ I am dying, Paul, — dying, without a friend near me. 
Look after my children. See that the laws of Louisiana 
are fairly administered in their behalf. I ask no better 
will. Good-by, old friend. Pray God you may never 
know the desolation and the loneliness that are my 
portion in this the hour of my extremity, and go down 
on your knees and thank Him that Agnes Snowe said 
‘no’ to you twelve years ago, instead of ‘yes.’ ” 

Scratched on the reverse side was, “ Paul Winches- 
ter, P County, New York.” 

“Uncle Otis’s last words,” said Bertha, solemnly. 
“ How came they in Dr. Reynard’s possession ? and 
why have they not been sent to the person to whom 
they were addressed? Winchester I Winchester !” she 
murmured. “Wasn’t that the name of the gentleman 


A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 


291 


who wrote such a beautiful letter to Aunt Agnes after 
Uncle Otis died? I heard mamma tell about it. Why 
has this been kept, instead of being sent to him ?” And 
Bertha leaned her elbow upon the table and fell into a 
deep reverie. 

But all her thinking could not untangle the mystery. 
She had never heard the name of the physician who 
had attended her uncle in his last illness, and, in fact, 
she had been such a mere child when that event hap- 
pened, that all the attendant circumstances had entirely 
faded from her recollection. The name of “ Winches- 
ter” she dimly recognized as being the one she had 
more than once heard her mother mention as belong- 
ing to a very near and dear relative and friend of her 
dead uncle’s. That no intercourse had been held with 
him since her aunt’s second marriage she felt sure of, 
and why ? This finding of her uncle’s last written 
words in a coat that had once belonged to Dr. Reynard 
could mean but one thing, and that one thing was that 
Mr. Winchester, for some unknown reason, was a per- 
son Dr. Reynard preferred having no dealings with. 

Bertha was too unlearned in the world’s ways to 
suspect guilt at every turn. Suspicion of Dr. Reynard 
had been forced upon her by the remarkable course he 
had pursued with his afflicted stepson ; but in her guile- 
lessness she could penetrate no farther into the mystery 
of this letter than to see that for some cause it had 
been withheld from Mr. Winchester. 

“ I know not, nor do I care to know, what this all 
means,” was her final conclusion; “but I do know 
that Uncle Otis has spoken to me from the grave, tell- 
ing me where to find a friend for his poor boy. Surely 
I must be doing right, for God first sent Dr. Gardiner 
to help and advise me, and now, here comes this letter 
back from the buried past, telling my poor cousin just 
where to go to find a friend, — a true and powerful 
friend. Ah ! yes, surely. Heaven is smiling upon my 
efforts.” 

Once more she read the hastily-scribbled note over 


292 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


then, risings, she locked it securely away in her writing- 
desk to be used when the right time came. 

* ^ * * * . * 

The family were to return to Aland early in March. 
Six weeks only remained to Bertha in which to mature 
her plans. The one thing needful was to find some 
one to take charge of Ralph, and see him safely under 
Dr. Gardiner’s care. Once in that -good man’s hands 
Bertha felt sure his recovery would be both speedy and 
sure. To get him there would be easy enough ; that 
portion of her love’s labor was performed. But it was, 
and for some time would be, utterly out of the question 
for him to travel unattended. A fitting companion was 
the one grand desideratum. It must be a white per- 
son, for Bertha would not stoop to tamper with her 
aunt’s slaves. It must be a trustworthy person, for 
to explain the necessity for this strange proceeding 
would compel partial confidence. It must be an in- 
corruptible person, for Dr. Reynard was to be kept 
ignorant of Ralph’s whereabouts. It must be a fear- 
less person, for otherwise Dr. Reynard could intimidate 
him into telling all he knew. 

Where the individual was found who combined all 
these desirable qualifications and who he was, I will 
reserve for another chapter. 


A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 


293 


CHAPTER XL. 

A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 

“Mamma, don’t you think young Mr. Rockbridge 
the very handsomest man you ever saw ?” 

The above-recorded invidious interrogatory was 
propounded by Miss Barrow to Mrs. Reynard, as the 
Reynard party dallied over their hotel breakfast as 
only the wealthy drones of this world can afford to 
dally. The Reynard party consisted of Dr. Reynard 
and lady, Miss Helen Barrow, and the inevitable Mr. 
James Reynard. Miss Barrow was looking charm- 
ingly fr^sh and freshly charming in a becoming morn- 
ing neglige; and Mr. Reynard had just kindly made 
up his small modicum of mind, and concluded it would 
be very possible to live happily with the little monkey 
notwithstanding some little peculiarities of temper, 
when she startled him out of his complacent security 
by her animated eulogium on handsome Horace Rock- 
bridge. 

“ The very handsomest, daughter ?” replied Mrs. 
Reynard ; “ that is very unqualified praise for a young 
lady to bestow upon a young gentleman.” 

‘‘ Well, but, mamma, I think so, and why not say 
so ? Of course I have no notion of turning his head 
by telling him I think so, though,” she retorted. 

“ How does my little daughter know that a pretty 
compliment from a pretty girl would be all-sufficient to 
turn young Rockbridge’s head ?” asked Dr. Reynard, 
banteringly. 

“ Oh, because,” said Helen, saucily, — “ of course he is 
insufferably vain ; all young men are, are they not, 
Mr. Reynard ?” And she turned with a look of inno- 
cent inquiry to the nice young man on her left. 


294 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


“I suppose,” retorted Mr. Reynard, who, when very 
much exasperated, ventured upon a little retaliatory 
bit of snapping, “ Miss Barrow wishes us to under- 
stand that that head must be unusually well balanced 
which can retain its equilibrium under the intoxicating 
influence of her favorable notice.” 

“Miss Barrow wishes you to understand,” was the 
tart rejoinder, “that she considers you a rude savage, 
and wishes to have nothing more to say to you for the 
day!” And, with a pout, she turned the cold shoulder 
upon him, and resumed the Rockbridge subject ani- 
mat edly, — 

“ Oh, mamma I he is such a magnifiOent-looking fel- 
low ! — so splendidly large I Ah, I do adore a large man I” 

The extinguished Mr. Reynard thought, with a mel- 
ancholy sigh, of his own Tappertitian proportions, and, 
with an envious one, of Mr. Rockbridge’s six foot of 
manhood. 

“ Ye-es, he is certainly large enough ; no one can 
deny that,” was Mrs. Reynard’s indifferent reply to 
Helen’s rhapsodies. 

“ But then, mamma, his size is not all. He has such 
a fine, frank face, such merry, blue eyes, and, oh I such 
a mouth and such teeth !” 

“ Who is this young Adonis, my love ?” ventured 
Dr. Reynard. 

“He is a nephew of that Mrs. Rockbridge whose 
plantation is just eight miles from Aland, papa. He 
says his aunt has often pressed him cordially to spend 
a month or two with her, when the fishing is good in 
the spring ; but that hitherto he has always begged off 
from the old lady, but that now, since he has found she 
has such pleasant neighbors, he shall certainly pay her 
a visit this spring, just to fish, you know. The pleas- 
ant neighbors means you and mamma,” she added, de- 
murely. 

“We shall be most happy to receive him at Aland,” 
said the autocrat, speaking in the conjugal number. 

“ I doubt not but the young man will find fishing in 


A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 


295 


the neighborhood of Aland both pleasant and profit- 
able,” ventured Mr. Reynard, emerging from under the 
extinguisher Helen had placed upon him awhile back. 

Helen clapped the extinguisher on again. “ As Mr. 
Rockbridge does not propose wasting his time on min- 
nows, Mr. Reynard need have no personal fears.” 

“ Helen, I am ashamed of you !” cried Mrs. Reynard. 

“ Yes, mamma, we all know you are. But what 
right has he to insinuate that Mr. Rockbridge is com- 
ing to fish for me, and expects to find it profitable ?” 

Mr. Reynard protested and apologized. 

Miss Barrow pouted and scorned his apologies. 

Then he tried his hand at a little bit of diplomacy. 

“ Will you forgive me if I tell you a secret?” 

“ What secret ?” asked the young lady, still pouting, 
but relenting slightly at the sound of that so-potent 
word. 

“ I love to angbr you, — that is my secret.” 

“ And pray, may I ask why ?” freezing again. 

“ Because, you are so handsome when you are angry. 
Your eyes flash, and that saucy little nose looks so 
defiant, and your lips were made for pouting, anyhow, 
you know.” 

At this neat little stroke, Helen’s lips gave evidence 
that they were made for something better than ugly 
words and naughty pouting, for they curved them- 
selves involuntarily into a smile of gratified vanity. 

“ Come, mamma, let us leave him ; he is so hateful.” 

The quartette left the dining-room, — the ladies re- 
mounting to their apartments, the two brothers pro- 
ceeding toward the smoking-room. 

“You extricated yourself from that scrape with a 
little more dexterity than I gave you credit for possess- 
ing, my lad ; but let me give you a piece of advice 
and an item of information,” began Hr. Reynard. 

“ Let’s have them ; you’re good at the former, John. 
I’ll be hanged if you ain’t as full of advice as an egg 
is of meatl” 

Mr. Reynard never sacrificed force to elegance in his 
similes. 


296 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ Don't trifle away your exceedingly slender chance 
of making my stepdaughter like you," replied his 
brother, coldly, — “that is my piece of advice. My 
item of information is that this Rockbridge is a rival 
to be feared." 

“Do you know, John," said contumacious James, 
“ that I think whoever does finally catch that little 
minx will be more an object of pity than of envy?" 

“ What do you mean, sir ?" savagely demanded his 
brother. 

“Nothing, John, — nothing. You're so infernally 
hasty I I only meant that she has such an uncom- 
monly peppery temper. But if she was triple extract 
of Cayenne itself, I'd go in for her, and win her, too, 
if I could ; so you needn't fly off at the handle any 
more, John ; at least, I wouldn't, if I was you, with 
so many people around, you know." 

Dr. Reynard took the hint, and quickly readjusted 
his facial mask, which had become slightly disordered 
in his heat, and threatened a disclosure of the dark, 
true face beneath. Then he spoke again, — 

“ Your peace is only half made, let me tell you. I 
know her better than you do." 

“What in the deuce shall I do?" asked the delin- 
quent. 

“ She goes to the opera to-night. Send her a bouquet 
of white japonicas to dress her hair and corsage with." 

“Japonicas cost like the devil," said the needy 
suitor, ruefully. “ They are a dollar apiece, and one 
single flower would buy me half a dozen good cigars. 
Won't one do ? Isn't a whole bunch of 'em coming it 
rather strong, John ?" And the nice young man sighed. 

Dr. Reynard's bearded lip curled with scorn ineffa- 
ble. He was ashamed of possessing such a picayunish 
brother. 

“You deserve to starve," he said, contemptuously. 
Then he put his hand into the pocket-book which Otis 
Barrow had filled for him, and extracted a ten-dollar bill. 
“ Here, buy your bouquet with this." 


A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 


m 


“ Thank you, John, thank you I I declare you are a 
real trump! Eight dollars will do for the japonicas, 
and the other two will do for cigars. I am really a 
thousand times obliged to you ! Au revoir. I believe 
we are to take the ladies to -Victor’s at twelve.” And, 
with an airy bow, the mendicant in broadcloth turned 
down a by-street, and was soon out of sight of his 
benefactor. 

“Quite a neat little speculation,” quoth James the 
little to himself. “ But why in the devil is he so set 
upon my marrying the little monkey ? Now, if it was 
her cousin, — glorious Bertha ! — ah, then, by Jove ! it 
would be heaven !” 

“ Is he most knave or fool ?” asked John the great 
of himself. “ Curse him I Does he suppose I am so 
determined on this match for his benefit ? Fool, I am 
going to marry them because he is the only safe hus- 
band for her ! I want no d — d inquisitive Paul Prys 
around me I” 

That evening, while Miss Barrow was making a 
grande toilette for the French opera, a magnificent 
bouquet of pure white japonicas was brought to her 
door, in the heart of which she found a card, and on 
the card she found these words, — 

“ I send these pure white blossoms as a flag of 
truce. If they are worn about your person to-night I 
shall consider myself received once more into favor. 
Their absence I shall take as an indication that my 
unpardonable impertinence is still unforgiven. 

“Your devoted slave, 

“ J. Betnard.” 

Scarcely had Helen time to admire the beautiful 
flowers, and read the accompanying billet-doux, before 
another knock heralded another floral offering. This 
time it was a small cluster of crimson japonicas, en- 
circling one pure waxen blossom. It, too, held a card. 
H. Rockbridge sent with it his “ votive offering to the 
26 


298 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


queen of hearts,” and begged her to let his flowers 
adorn her gracious person that evening, and by their 
presence give token that the donor was not utterly in- 
significant in her eyes. The beauty of the white blos- 
soms paled before the glory of the red as nice James 
Reynard had paled before handsome Horace Rock- 
bridge. 

‘‘ How beautiful I” murmured the young lady, audibly. 

“ Yes, mam’selle,” said Susanne, considering herself 
personally addressed ; “the rouges are brillantes very 
much ; they are charmantes ! they wear with mam’- 
selle’s corn-silk ce soir most beautifully ! mam’selle 
could wear not the whites, for they make all things to 
look most pale with the lovely corn-silk, and the hril- 
lantes rouges, mam’selle, look most lovely !” 

Poor Susanne had been a resident of America just 
long enough to imbibe its pervading spirit of reckless 
audacity, which had engendered the idea that the art 
of speaking good English consisted exclusively in dis- 
locating sentences, divorcing verbs from their subjects, 
and in flinging in adjectives as independent candidates 
for any position whichsoever they might find vacant. 

Susanne was Helen’s priestess of the toilet, for, 
added to her native exquisite French taste, she had 
been once upon a time the employee of a French mo- 
diste; so, of course, she “ knew all about everything,” 
and was the one human being to whom Miss Barrow 
meekly submitted. So that night Miss Barrow appeared 
at the opera in corn-silk and crimson japonicas. The 
two young men, who had so carefully worded their indi- 
vidual aspirations that she should wear their colors, 
would have felt decidedly cheap had they known that 
their fate had been left entirely in the hands of Miss 
Barrow’s maid,, and that the queen of hearts had de- 
cided on the red flowers simply because they “ went ” 
best with the corn-silk. 

At the first fall of the curtain Miss Barrow’s box 
was crowded as usual. Mr. Rockbridge was fortunate 
enough to arrive before any of her other adorers, and 


A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 


299 


as he bowed his tall head over the little lady, to thank 
her for wearing his flowers, Mr. James Reynard made 
his appearance on the other side of her chair. 

“ Red japonicas !” was his mental exclamation ; 
“ the devil! there’s eight dollars gone for nothing.” 

Helen saw the angry flush on his face, and the spirit 
of coquettish mischief entered in and took possession 
of her for the rest of that evening. 

“ Oh, thank you so much for your beautiful flowers 1” 
she said, with empressement to Mr. Rockbridge. “How 
could you have imagined so exactly the color I prefer ?” 

Mr. Reynard spoke before Mr. Rockbridge could 
concoct a reply, which was neither polite nor wise of 
Mr. Reynard. 

“ Then the pure white japonica finds no favor in 
your eyes ?” 

“Not often.” She turned a look of merry insolence 
upon him. “ A bouquet of dead white blossoms, with 
nothing to relieve their ghastliness, is so suggestive of 
coffins and graves and dead persons, you know. I do 
so like warm and bright things. Scarlet, you know, is 
such a cheerful color.” 

Upon which Mr. Rockbridge and Miss Barrow ram- 
bled off upon a general dissertation on the respective 
merits of red, white, and variegated japonicas. Flowers 
naturally suggested nature, — nature naturally sug- 
gested the country, — the country naturally suggested 
Mr. Rockbridge’s old aunt, — Mr. Rockbridge’s old 
aunt naturally suggested the proposed visit to the 
Silver Lake neighborhood. 

“ Ah ! if you are fond of hunting, I am sure you can 
manage to pass a month in our dull neighborhood 
quite endurably, for, when the spring rise fills the low 
back lands and the deer are driven to seek higher 
ground, our hunting is not to be despised. Mr. Rey- 
nard will be at Aland this spring, on one of his annual 
visits to a pretty cousin of mine up there, and I know 
it will give him great pleasure to pilot you through 
our woods and introduce you to the best stands.” And 


300 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


she airily waved her fan toward her enraged victim, 
by way of including him in the conversation. 

I am sure I shall be most delighted,” began polite 
Mr. Rockbridge. 

But forbearance had ceased to be a virtue, and all 
the soul that was contained in the small body of Mr. 
James Reynard rose in virtuous indignation. To be 
coolly consigned to pauper Bertha was more than 
even he could, would, or should stand. His small 
black eyes twinkled with exasperation, as he muttered, 
in a suppressed voice, — 

“Is it not enough, mademoiselle, that you should 
slight my flowers for his, without making a butt of me 
for his amusement?” 

“ Slight your gift?” said his tormentor, innocently. 
“ Indeed, I did nothing of the kind. I told Susanne to 
be sure and put them in water ; and as there were so 
many of them, you know, and I had given her leave 
to go to a ball to-night with her sweetheart, I gave 
her just one little one to wear in her bonny black hair. 
I knew you had such a good heart that you wouldn’t 
care, and you don’t, do you ?” 

She turned her head on one side and looked at him 
with saucily-coaxing eyes. 

“ Certainly not!” said the infuriated gallant, pulling 
his moustache savagely. “ Why not have given them 
all to your maid ?” 

“ All 1” exclaimed Helen, in well-affected horror. 
“Why, my dear Mr. Reynard, you surely would not 
have my poor Susanne go to a ball looking like a market- 
woman, with a mammoth drumhead cabbage for sale ?” 
And the insolent minx looked severely reproachful. 

This last indignity was too much for the exasper- 
ated swain. He seized his hat, and with a stiff bow 
to the occupants of the box, he hurried out to cool his 
wrath at a safe distance from his tormentor. 

Dr. Reynard, who had been watching this little by- 
play from the rear of the box, left his seat and joined 
his brother as he was hastily elbowing his way out. 


A RIVAL TO BE FEARED. 


301 


“ Why such haste, my boy ?” he asked, coolly laying 
his hand on James’s shoulder. James continued his 
headlong retreat, until they stood side by side upon 
the banquette. 

“I say, John, I wouldn’t marry that little minx in 
yonder ; no, not if her fortune was ten, instead of one 
million.” 

“And I say, James,” replied John, “you are cer- 
tainly the biggest fool that ever disgraced the name of 
Reynard. What is it now ?” 

“ Nothing, except that she has been making a butt of 
me the whole evening for the benefit of Rockbridge 
and Company, and I’ll be d — d if I stand it any longer I” 

“ What did she say ?” 

“ Told me to my face that the bouquet I sent her 
looked like a mammoth drumhead cabbage.” 

“ I don’t believe you,” was the cool rejoinder. 

“ Then, I suppose, I am a liar as well as a fool,” was 
the angry retort. 

“You are so much of the latter,” said his brother, 
sneeringly, “ that I feel strongly tempted to leave you 
to your fate, which would be ultimate starvation ; in- 
stead of which I am determined to force happiness and 
fortune upon you in spite of yourself, and 1 say that 
you shall marry Helen Barrow, — do you understand?” 

“Monstrous kind of you, ’pon honor ; but the pros- 
pect doesn’t elate me a particle. I say, John, what in 
the deuce makes you so bent on this thing?” 

“ Has your anger cooled enough for you to return 
to Helen’s box?” was John’s only answer. 

“ I suppose so,” was the reply, in a voice of dogged 
indifference. 

“Well, then, go back and make yourself as agreea- 
ble as possible, instead of putting your boorish ill- 
breeding in direct contrast with Horace Rockbridge’s 
refined polish.” 

Things must be brought to a crisis before another 
month, thought the arch-schemer as he laid him down 
to sleep that night. 


26 * 


302 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


“ I’ll bring things to a crisis when I go up to pay 
aunt a visit, this spring,” said Horace Rockbridge to 
himself as he mounted to his room. 

“ Things are coming to a crisis when Mr. Reynard 
can afford to put on the airs of an accepted lover before 
everybody,” muttered Helen, angrily throwing aside 
her out-door wrappings. 

“Things are coming to a crisis,” murmured James 
Reynard, as he turned the key on the inside of his door, 
“and I don’t care a red which way the cat jumps.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

JACK BOLTON. 

The Tanglewood plantation, which, modest as it 
was in comparison with most of the lordly estates that 
bordered upon Silver Lake, had been amply sufficient 
to keep Bertha Lombard (into whose possession it had 
passed at the time of Major Snowe’s death) from feel- 
ing in any respect like a dependent upon her aunt’s 
cold charity. 

Of course, Madame Yerzenay and Mrs Reynard 
were co-heirs with the lonely little orphan girl ; but, 
as they both had a much larger share of worldly pos- 
sessions than they really knew what to do with, and 
as the meager little property, if partitioned, would 
amount to nothing for each one individually, with an 
exertion of generosity unparalleled in their supremely 
selfish lives, they consented to let the poor old planta- 
tion pass intact to Becky’s child. 

So Tanglewood plantation was Miss Lombard’s for- 
tune ; and it was one of her regular weekly duties to 
have herself rowed across the lake, in order that she 
might see personally to the wants of certain old pen- 


JACK BOLTON. 


303 


sioners, — faithful servants of the dear ones who were 
gone, — whom she considered had a life-claim on her 
kindness and attention. It was during one of these 
visits that she accidentally discovered the individual 
for whom she was so eagerly searching, a man “ sans 
peur et sans reproche^' morally, though very little of a 
chevalier in appearance. 

Miss Lombard knew that the management of her 
place had been left in the hands of the same overseer 
who had held office so creditably during her father’s 
and grandfather’s lifetime ; but, besides bearing him 
casually spoken of at Aland as an excellent manager, 
she had rarely ever heard his name mentioned. She 
was indebted purely to chance for the discovery that 
under the rough exterior of her plantation manager 
there was as fearless a soul and as kindly a heart as 
ever lacked the possession of a broadcloth coat to con- 
stitute him a gentleman. 

Bertha, on the visit during which she made this 
happy discovery, had gone to the cabin of an old couple, 
man and wife, who had spent the greater portion of 
their lives, the former as coachman and general man- 
of-all-work in the yard, and the latter as cook, up to 
the time of Major Snowe’s death. Being, both of them, 
far advanced in life, and really past the age for active 
usefulness, they had been recommended to his heirs as 
objects deserving of the kindest treatment and exemp- 
tion from hard work. These two old people were 
Bertha’s especial pets, and she never failed to pay 
them a visit once a week. On this occasion she found 
them both comfortably hobnobbing over their own 
cabin-fire, in luxurious- enjoyment of their pipes and 
making generous display of a new supply of bright red 
flannel, — the one in his shirt-sleeves, the other in a 
quilted petticoat. 

“ Oh, how cosy we do look!” said Bertha, merrily, 
as she stepped over the low cabin threshold, looking 
her own name — “ bright and beautiful.” 

“ God bless your purty face I” said old Betsy, taking 


304 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


her pipe out of her mouth ; and, rising, she wiped off 
a chair with her check apron and placed it near the 
lire for her young mistress. 

“ Ah ! I’m so glad to see you and Uncle Jake in 
nice new flannel before the real cold weather sets in.” 

“ Yes’m,” said old Betsy, with a peculiar grunt, sig- 
nificant of something behind. > 

“ You Betsy, jes’ you hold your tongue, old womin ; 
I tole you as how you’d be pesterin’ little mistiss wid 
that complaint soon’s ever she corned to see us !” 

“Well, Jake,” retorted Aunt Betsy, “ain’t little 
mistiss de one for us to go to wid our grievances, any- 
how ? say, ole man I” 

“Ain’t you done got the flannin, and got it on your 
back, you cantankerous ole nigger?” said Uncle Jake, 
angrily. 

“ Yes, I is, thanks to Mr. Bolton ; but ” 

“ But what does all this mean ?” asked Bertha, look- 
ing, in surprise, from one to the other. 

“ Don’t ’mount to nothin’, missy ; Betsy is a techy 
ole crittur ; but she knows nary nigger on dis place 
gwine suffer for want as long as de Lord lets Mr. 
Bolton live.” 

“Yes; but. Uncle Jake,” said Bertha, “it is my 
place to see that you do not want ; therefore I insist 
that either you or Aunt Betsy tell me what this is 
about flannel.” 

“ Thar, now,” said Aunt Betsy, triumphantly, “ didn’t 
I been tellin’ you that missy warn’t gwine to let her 
niggers be ’posed upon ?” 

“ Well, ole womin, tune up,” said Uncle Jake, with 
an air of resignation ; “ but, in de meanwhiles. I’ll go 
out-do’s an’ finish my pipe, for I knows it gwine take 
you two blessed hours ov dis day ov our Lord to git 
through tellin’ mistiss ’bout dat flannin. She’s ben mos’ 
bustin’, missy, to tell you for more’n a month, but I 
would’n’ ’low her.” And, with an air of dignified supe- 
riority, Uncle Jake made his way to a bench on the 
outside of his cabin, and sat there smoking and nod- 


JACK BOLTON. 


305 


ding in the bright sunshine, a picture of perfect com- 
fort and contentment. 

“ Now, then, Aunt Betsy.” And the young lady set- 
tled herself into an attitude of patient attention. 

“Well, then, my little mistiss, you mus’ know that 
me an’ Jake is nothin’ more’n two ole wore-out nig- 
gers what ain’t got no more hard work in ’em, missy, 
but life is jes’ as sweet to two good-for-nothin’ ole nig- 
gers as mos’ anybody else, chile.” 

“Who wants you to work. Aunt Betsy?” asked 
Bertha. “ Is it Mr. Bolton?” 

“ Lord love your soul, chile, de blessed sun ov heaven 
don’t shine on no more juster nor better man than Mr. 
Bolton I” 

“Well, but what about the flannel?” said Bertha, 
impatiently. 

“ I’se a cornin’ to that, honey, I’se a cornin’. Lord 
love yo’ purty face, but you is a impatien’ one. Well, 
den, you know, wen Mars’ Ranar’ and Miss Agnis 
bese startin’ down for de city, Mr. Bolton he makes 
out a lis’ ov what de plantation stan’ in need of, such 
as pork, an ’lasses, an’ Lowells, an’ shoes, an’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Bertha, interrupting the catalogue of 
items, “ I know, — but the flannel.” 

“ Well,” said Aunt Betsy, brought back thus sum- 
marily to her text, “ I ’spose ’mong todder things he 
writ down flannin and ’backer for Jake and Betsy, an’ 
he gived the paper to my son Bill to carry to Mars’ 
Ranar’, and Bill say he reckon as how somethin’ had 
put mars’ doctor out ov sorts ’fore he got thar, for he 
cuss like blazes when Bill handid him de paper, and 
say Mr. Bolton was makin’ fools ov all de niggers 
over here, anyhow, a pamperin’ ’em up wid ’lasses 
an’ sech like ; an’ he tole Bill to tell Mr. Bolton that 
he’d see ole Jake and ole Betsy in — in a mighty 
hot place, honey, war dey don’t need no flannin, chile, 
’fore he’d buy any red flannin for two ole, wore-out, 
good-for-nothin’s like me and Jake. Well, chile, long 
as he tole Bill to tell Mr. Bolton, Bill he corned home 


306 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


an’ tole him. Mr. Bolton he jes’ got red in de face, 
an’ he say, ‘Never mind. Bill, I ’spose de doctor was 
out ov sorts ; he’ll send de flannin.’ An’ no more 
was said ’bout it den; but, sho’ ’nough, chile, wen 
de things corned no flannin war thar, but wat should 
Mr. Bolton do but take de money out ov his own 
pocket, little mistiss, and puts Bill on a mule, an’ 
sen’s him to town for dis ve’y red flannin wat you sees 
me an’ Jake a-wearin’ of; an’ wen he brung it to us he 
say, ‘ Here, ole folks, your dead master was a good, 
kind friend to me when I needed one, an’ he thought 
enough of you two to speak of you on his death-bed, 
an’ you sha’n’t suffer as long as Jack Bolton’s anywhars 
nigh you.’ ” 

Bertha Lombard’s eyes were sparkling brightly, 
partly with indignation at Dr. Reynard’s harsh treat- 
ment of her old pensioners, and partially in admira- 
tion of Mr. Bolton’s kindness of heart. 

“ Aunt Betsy, you did perfectly right in telling me 
this,” she said to the old woman, “ and I want to tell 
you now, that if ever in the future you have just cause 
to feel yourself unkindly treated, you must not hesitate 
to tell me of it plainly; for you and Uncle Jake were 
faithful servants to the dear ones who are gone, and I 
should be acting a most ungrateful part by you if I 
let you suffer for anything. Dr. Reynard is managing 
for me, as I understand nothing of business ; but your 
personal comfort is my concern, and not his.” 

“You hear dat, Jake ?” asked the old woman, in a 
triumphant voice ; “ an’ you’se ben makin’ me hole my 
tongue for a long time, ole man.” 

“ I was actin’ under orders, ole womin,” said Uncle 
Jake, poking his head in at the cabin-door. 

“Whose orders. Uncle Jake ?” asked Bertha. 

“ Mr. Bolton’s, missy.” 

“What were Mr. Bolton’s orders?” 

“Nothin’, missy, ’scept he said to me, ‘I say, Jake, 
you know ole Betsy’s a great hand to tell Miss Berthy 
everything, wen she comes over, and this little affa’r 


JACK BOLTON. 


sot 


'bout the flannin ’twon't do no good to tell ; 'twill jes' 
make her think hard ov them as she's 'bleeged to live 
wid, po' chile, an’ we can spar' her that pain ; she’s 
had morn her sheer, anyhow.’ ” 

“ Did Mr. Bolton really say all that, XJncle Jake ?” 

“ Every word ov it, missy.” 

“ Then he is modest and thoughtful, as well as 
kind-hearted, and I want to see him myself, before I 
go back over the lake, to thank him.”^ 

“ He’s all you sez, an’ mo’, mistiss ; an' thar he 
goes right now to de house.' 

Bertha sprang up quickly, and crossing the quarter 
lot by the nearest path toward the house, she came up 
to it by the time Mr. Bolton, who was getting to be 
quite an elderly man, had dismounted and walked 
slowly and heavily toward the house. He was an 
ordinary-looking man, large, and powerfully built, with 
great brawny hands and clumsily-booted feet of more 
than medium dimensions. His well-shaped head was 
covered with a thick suit of coarse, sandy hair, and a 
pair of shaggy, light eyebrows overhung the one pleas- 
ant feature of his face — his mild blue eyes, that 
looked as if they might more appropriately have be- 
longed to some gentle-hearted woman than a great, 
rough man. He looked a little surprised to see Bertha 
standing there on his own steps ; for, in her flying 
visits to the plantation, she generally came and went 
without his seeing her. 

“ Miss Berthy, most proud to see you, mum,” was 
his uncouth salutation, as he raised his hat respectfully 
to the young mistress of Tanglewood. 

Bertha held out a soft, white hand, saying, sweetly, 
“ I want to shake hands with you, Mr. Bolton, and 
thank you for your kindness to Uncle Jake and Aunt 
Betsy.” 

“ She’s ben an’ told you, has she ?” asked the old 
man, as he held the little white blossom of a hand 
timidly in a momeniary clasp. “ I tried to make her 
hold her tongue, miss ; but I think ef she couldn’t spin 


308 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


some yarn every time you corned over, it would make 
her sick.” 

“ I think she did perfectly right, Mr. Bolton, for 
otherwise I never should have had an opportunity of 
showing you how I appreciate your goodness of heart.” 

“ Don’t speak of it, Miss Berthy, in that light, I beg 
you, mum. Jack Bolton come to this neighborhood well 
on to twenty-five year ago, and Major Snowe tuk him 
in, without knowin’ nothin’ at all about him, and give 
him work ; and when, by reason of the climate, I was 
plaguey no account for the first two or three years, he 
doctored me and tuk care of me, like I was kin to him, 
and I’d have to be a precious black-hearted scoundrel 
if I could see even a dog that he had keered for suffer- 
ing, — and I know he did keer more than a heap for them 
two old darkies, — and I ain’t doing nothin’ more than I 
ought to do, miss, in takin’ good care of them.” 

“ Gratitude combined with modesty and generosity,” 
thought Bertha; “I have found a rough diamond.” 

“ An’ while we’re talking of the good old man that’s 
gone. Miss Berthy,” resumed the manager, “please let 
me take this chance to say, young lady, that thar’s 
nothin’ that Jack Bolton could be called on to do that 
he wouldn’t most gladly do to pay back to you — the 
little one they all loved so dear — some small portion 
of the big debt he owes to them that’s gone.” 

A bright, glad light flashed into Bertha’s beautiful 
eyes, and her last perplexity about Ralph melted before 
the earnest sincerity of the great, rough man standing 
before her. 

“Oh, Mr. Bolton!” she exclaimed eagerly, “you 
have it in your power to more than cancel your debt, 
right now, by doing me the very greatest kindness.” 

“ Speak the words, miss, an’ it shall be done, if 
mortal man kin do it.” 

Bertha’s next words took him rather aback : 

“ Mr. Bolton, if I was to ask you to help me do 
something in secret, — something entirely unauthorized 
by my so-called guardians, something, in fact, decid- 


JACK BOLTON. 


309 


edly against their wishes, — what would you say and 
do?” 

The poor man stood rubbing his work-hardened hands 
together in sad perplexity for a moment without answer- 
ing a word ; then the clouds of doubt floated away from 
his plain features and honest eye, and looking down 
upon the beautiful face upturned to his with such a 
brightly inquiring glance, he replied, very gently, — 

“ I should ‘say,’ Miss Berthy, that old Mr. Snowe’s 
granddaughter and Miss Rebecca’s child couldnH wan- 
der very far from the right way, and I should ‘do’ on- 
hesitatingly whatsoever she might ask me to do.” 

“ Shake hands with me again, Mr. Bolton,” cried 
Bertha, with shining eyes, “for the sake of the dear 
ones you appreciated so justly.” And again a snow- 
flake of a hand fluttered into Jack Bolton’s great, 
brown palm, in token of good fellowship between the 
high-bred young lady and her honest employee. “Now 
another question, Mr. Bolton. What do you think of 
my aunt’s husband, Dr. Reynard?” 

“ Miss Berthy,” said the poor man, his honest face 
again in a pucker, “ I don’t exactly see the drift of the 
catechism you’re a puttin’ me through ; but please 
don’t ask me any more questions, miss, which I can’t 
answer with a upright, downright ‘ yes’ or ‘no.’ The 
Bible tells us, I believe, to ‘judge not, less’n we be 
judged,’ and I’d much ruther leave Dr. Reynard an’ 
his affairs to the Lord A’mighty ; excuse me, therefore, 
for not answering your last question.” 

“ Oh,” said Bertha, laughing, “ that’s as much as I 
want to hear. Now, then, Mr. Bolton, I will tell you 
quickly and plainly what I want you to do for me. I 
may be doing Dr. Reynard a cruel injustice, — God for- 
give me if I am, — but his whole course, since my Cousin 
Ralph’s return from Europe, has tended so directly to- 
ward keeping him in his present helpless condition that, 
horrible as it sounds, I am forced to think that, in order 
to retain possession of my cousin’s fortune, he is keep- 
ing him in it. I am compelled, in my elforts to assist 
27 


310 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


poor Ralph, to act in direct opposition to Dr. Reynard’s 
orders, for when he is at home he will not even let me 
associate with the poor boy. I have had the advice 
of one of the most eminent physicians in New Orleans, 
since the family left, and he begged me, if possible, to 
get permission for Cousin Ralph to pay him a visit. 
He says if he can have him under his own roof for a 
month or two he will guarantee a cure. He is not 
able to travel without an attendant. If he goes at all 
it must be before the doctor returns. Will you go with 
him, Mr. Bolton ?” 

“You are asking a right tight thing of me. Miss 
Berthy, for it looks underhanded.” 

“ Very well, then,” said Bertha, disconsolately, “my 
poor cousin will have to drag out his miserable exist- 
ence in virtual imprisonment for the want of one true 
friend.” 

“ I’ll do it, miss ! I’ll do it !” exclaimed poor Bolton, 
desperately ; “no harm can come of it to the poor lad, 
I suppose. He’s of age, anyhow, and I reckon he’s 
got as good a right as anybody to visit Orleans ; and 
I reckon Jack Bolton’s got as good a right as anybody 
to go down to Orleans, too, on the same boat. We’se 
both free, white, and twenty-one, and it’ll be nobody’s 
business if Jack Bolton should see proper to stick toler- 
able close to Mr. Barrow while the two is together on 
the same boat.” 

Bertha was immensely amused at this off-hand 
method of divesting the journey of its conspiracy air. 
“Ah! you will go, then?” she exclaimed, gladly. 

“ Jack Bolton’s not the man. Miss Berthy, to blow 
big guns about gratitude, and devotion, etc., and then 
back down when the first chance to prove hisself comes. ” 

“Remember,” said the pretty conspirator, warn- 
ingly, “Dr. Reynard is not to know where he is, for 
he could go right there, prove poor Ralph was not in 
his right mind and still in need of a guardian, and so 
get him back in his clutches.” 

“ Wild horses sha’n’t pull a word from me,” valiantly 


JACK BOLTON. 


311 


replied Mr. Bolton, who, once committed, was prepared 
for any amount of duplicity. “ You know,” he con- 
tinued, “that after I’ve seen Mr. Ralph to his friend’s 
house. I’ll forget whar the house is and what the name 
of his friend is ; and who can quarrel with a man for 
forge ttin’? ” 

“Now, then,” said Bertha, “I do not intend you 
shall have any more of the burden of my iniquitous 
proceedings on your shoulders than I can possibly 
avoid, so, after this, you shall hear not a word until 
Cousin Ralph and his trunk come right over here to 
you, for I want you to take the boat above here, and 
not at our usual landing. You will take it after dark.” 

“All right, miss, I’m acting under your orders now, 
and ef you was to tell me to swim across the Missis- 
sippi with the poor boy on my back, I’d die tryin’ it.” 

“Why, Mr. Bolton,” laughed Bertha, “ you’re made 
of the stuff they used to make knights-errant of.” 

“ I don’t know, miss,” replied her knight, innocent] 3^ 
“I only know I hope the night’s errand you’re sending 
me on may turn out for good and not for harm.” 

“ Ah I you shall never, never regret it, I promise you 
beforehand ; and, if it is a sin, the sin is mine, not 
yours.” 

“ If it is a sin. Miss Berthy, you’ll have to pray us 
both out ovthe scrape, for Jack Bolton’s a sight better 
at maulin’ rails than he is at prayin’.” 

“Mr. Bolton, your faith in Mr. Snowe’s grand- 
daughter and Miss Rebecca’s child must be mere lip- 
faith, after all, else you would believe that, although 
she is obliged to combat treachery with seeming treach- 
ery, she could not ask you to help her in anything she 
would be ashamed of those same dear ones looking 
down upon.” With this earnest vindication of her 
course, the young girl closed her interview with her 
new ally, and passed out to the skiff that was in wait- 
ing for her. 

“You will keep mamma’s old barouche and a pair 
of horses in readiness, please, so that you can start at 
a moment’s notice.” 


312 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


“All right, Miss Bertha; and you may depend on 
Jack Bolton for keepin’ his tongue under padlock, both 
now and hereafter.” 

The little skiff shot out into the lake, and Jack Bolton 
retraced his steps to his house, muttering to himself, — 
“ Curse him ! it’s a good thing for the poor boy that 
thar’s one member of the family sharp enough to see 
through him, and sharp enough to outwit him, too, 
hang Jack Bolton if she ain’t.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

OUTWITTED. 

The “ season” was fairly over, and but one week 
more remained of the allotted time of their stay for 
the Reynards to dispose of before they should return 
to the dull monotony of plantation life, and nothing 
but the knowledge that Mr. Rockbridge was to follow 
her very speedily consoled Mademoiselle Helene for 
the terrible prospect. 

It is a marvelous, but none the less an established 
fact, that let a couple of fashionable women spend one, 
two, three, or four months within the proximity of 
dry-goods stores, and two-thirds of that one, two, three, 
or four months will most inevitably be spent in the 
luxurious pleasure of shopping. 

“ Lives there a woman with soul so dead” who can- 
not appreciate the exquisite, but indescribable pleasure 
of spending hour upon hour within the sacred precincts 
of some temple of fashion, seated on a crimson vel- 
vet stool, leaning over a polished counter, whose shin- 
ing surface speedily disappears from view beneath a 
silken Ossa piled upon a velvet Pelion, while daintily- 
cravated and sty lislily-moustached manikins bow their 


OUTWITTED. 


313 


pretty bows and smirk their little smirks on the other 
side of it ? If there does, that woman was not Mrs. 
Keynard, nor was it Miss Barrow; so, when the auto- 
crat informed them of the day in which he wished to 
leave for Aland, there was a feminine duet improvised 
upon the spot, in which both voices plaintively deplored 
the hard fate which compelled them to leave the prox- 
imity of temples of fashion “ without having bought 
one earthly thing.” 

“ What I more shopping ?” exclaimed the ogre, 
whose male intellect could not grasp the fact that a 
woman’s shopping is never done. 

“More shopping. Dr. Reynard? why, you do not 
wish us to return to the plantation, where we will be 
buried for the next six months, without at least sup- 
plying ourselves with the absolute necessaries of life ?” 
And Mrs. Reynard cast a most reproachful look at her 
derelict spouse. 

“ Certainly not, my love, — certainly not,” said the 
penitent husband ; “ but if you and Helen really re- 
quire another week in which to do your shopping, would 
you mind my preceding you home? You know you 
have promised to spend this last week with the Apple- 
tons, and it will not be like leaving you at the hotel ; 
and as James is to accompany you home, you will be 
as well taken care of as if I were to wait for you.” 

“ Is there anything particularly pressing that re- 
quires your presence at Aland ?” asked Mrs. Reynard, 
coldly. 

“ There is, my love,” replied her husband, promptly. 
“ I have this morning received a letter from your man- 
ager, informing me that some new disease has broken 
out among the stock, and your mules are dying two 
and three a day. I think it probable I may be able 
to check it by going up at once myself ; but it is no- 
thing, of course, that need interfere with the plans 
you and Helen may have already formed.” 

Dr. Reynard’s object in desiring to start home was 
actually true, but his insisting upon the ladies remain- 
27 * 


314 


DEAD MEET’S SHOES. 


ing to pay the visit promised to a much-esteemed 
friend of Miss Barrow’s father, was owing to his de- 
sire to satisfy himself that Ralph was as he had left 
him. For, if he should find him much changed for 
the better, through the exertions of his artful cousin, 
it would be easier for him to undo what she might 
have done, in the absence of the poor boy’s mother, 
than with her there, for, although Mrs. Reynard had 
never interfered in any plan he had proposed for her 
son’s benefit (?), he knew well that it was her blind 
confidence in his judgment that had made her so easy 
a dupe; but even her cold indifference might not be 
proof against a second attempt to frustrate Bertha’s 
successful efforts to arouse her cousin. Hence it was 
decidedly best to see and judge of Ralph’s condition 
before the return of his mother. It would, also, thought 
the arch-schemer, suit his purpose best to make his 
appearance at Aland unannounced. 

As Mrs. Reynard made no further objection to his 
preceding her home by a few days, he conducted her 
and Helfene to the house of their friend, bade them as 
tender a farewell as if ’twas their last meeting in this 
vale of tears, and took passage alone for Aland. 

A day or two previously, Mrs. Reynard had written 
to Bertha to look for them one week from that writing. 
That was all the young conspirator had been waiting 
for. She desired to so time her cousin’s departure 
that there should be no contretemps upon the day upon 
which they should take passage from New Orleans. 
Ralph should be handed over into Mr. Bolton’s charge, 
to take the first boat he could “ hail” in, it being deemed 
by them safest to avoid the regular packets. 

* 5k 5^ :|c if. if. 

The week, the day, the hour had come for Bertha 
to take the daring step of sending the heir of Aland 
away from his mother’s house, to go in search of help 
at Dr. Gardiner’s hands. 

His trunk was packed — had been carefully packed — 
by a pair of loving, womanly hands that had forgotten 


OUTWITTED. 


315 


nothing which could possibly conduce to the comfort 
of the helpless exile. She had written a long letter to 
Dr. Gardiner, telling him that the step she was taking 
was entirely unauthorized by her cousin’s guardians, 
telling him why it had to be so secretly done, begging 
him if he really desired to benefit her cousin, to keep 
his presence under his roof a profound secret, inclos- 
ing the letter written by Otis Barrow on his death- 
bed, and requesting Dr. Gardiner that when the un- 
fortunate heir of Aland should be sufficiently restored 
to attend to business details, to direct him to take that 
inclosure on to his father’s old friend and consult with 
him before returning to Aland. “Of course,” added 
the devoted girl, “any communication with me would 
endanger my poor cousin’s secret ; therefore, until he 
returns to Aland himself, I must be content to bear 
my burden of anxiety and suspense as best I may. 
That God may bless the strange step I have been com- 
pelled to take, is my most earnest prayer.” 

Everything was in readiness. Mr. Bolton had been 
notified the day before of the exact hour on which his 
charge might be expected, and had returned the laconic 
answer, “All right, — Jack Bolton’s ready.” 

And as the sun was sinking, Bertha came into the 
sitting-room, where Miss Chevreul and Ralph were 
playing at that most stupidly-innocent of all games, 
dominoes. She had her cousin’s hat in her hands, 
and the little hands that held it were trembling like 
snowdrops in a storm. 

“ Cousin, come ; I want you to go with me a little 
while.” 

Always ready to obey her sweet voice unquestion- 
ingly, Ralph pushed the dominoes aside, and rose up 
with alacrity. 

“ Bertha,” said Miss Chevreul, as the two prepared 
to leave the room arm-in-arm, “ do not stay out long, 
dear, for the sun is nearly down, and it grows so cold 
after sunset.” 

“ Do not be uneasy,” was Bertha’s evasive reply. 
And they passed out of the room. 


316 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


‘‘ Ah !” murmured Miss Chevreul, as she gathered 
the discarded dominoes togettier, and replaced them in 
their box, “ how delighted his family will be to see 
what a miraculous improvement that sweet girl has 
wrought in the poor boy I” Then, as she had the pros- 
pect of an hour or two of undisturbed quiet before her, 
she drew a large easy-chair close to the fire and pre- 
pared to settle herself comfortably for a long resting 
spell ; but the exertion of moving the heavy chair 
brought on a violent attack of coughing, and for the 
space of the next fifteen minutes the sound of her hard, 
rasping cough fell unnoticed and unpitied on the still- 
ness of the empty house. It subsided after awhile, 
and, panting and exhausted, the lonely sufferer lay 
back in her chair, her eyes closed, her breast heaving 
painfully. 

In the mean while it had been but a few moment’s 
work for Bertha to seat herself and her cousin in the 
skiff that was to convey him and his baggage to 
Tanglewood, and then, with long, steady strokes, her 
two skillful oarsmen sent the little boat skimming 
across the silvery water like a thing of life. 

“ Where are we going asked Ralph, looking 
brightly animated with the pleasure of the swift motion 
of the boat. 

“ You are going to make a little visit to a good 
friend, Ralphy,” said Bertha. “ You want to go, 
don’t you ?” 

“ Yes, I want to go. That fellow rows first-rate, 
doesn’t he ?” And he pointed to the oarsman sitting 
next to him. 

It was fortunate for the success of Bertha’s plan 
that he was willing to follow her so blindly, else she 
would have found it difficult work to coax him to ac- 
company her on so slight an explanation. 

Bertha was too tremulously excited to converse 
easily during the transit from Aland to Tanglewood, 
which, happily, occupied but a little more than ten 
minutes. As the skiff neared the opposite shore, she 


OUTWITTED. 


sn 

could see that the old family coach — an antiquated 
affair, which closed up entirely — was already in wait- 
ing before the gate. 

Mr. Bolton, resplendent in his very best suit of 
clothes and shiniest hat, stood on the lake-bank wait- 
ing to receive his charge. 

As the boat grated upon the shore, Bertha turned to 
Ralph and bade him look and tell her who that gentle- 
man was who was waiting for them. 

Ralph raised his dim eyes and looked at the burly 
figure of honest Jack Bolton, without the faintest 
token that he recognized in him one of the best and 
stanchest of his own old-time friends. 

“ I do not know him,” he replied, in answer to 
Bertha’s question. 

“ Oh, Ralphy ! don’t you remember good Mr. Bolton? 
You used to go hunting and fishing with him, when 
you were quite a little boy.” And the eager anxiety 
in Bertha’s sweet voice made it sound almost querul- 
ous, “for suppose,” she thought, tremblingly, “her 
cousin should take one of his unreasoning prejudices 
against Mr. Bolton, and refuse to go with him ?” But 
his answer reassured her anxious heart. 

“ Mr. Bolton, — Mr. Bolton, — yes, I know him. He 
broke my bay pony for me, — my pony that I called 
Jack Bolton.” And a look of knowing satisfaction 
took the place of the puzzled perplexity with which he 
had at first regarded the figure standing upon the bank. 

“ Thank God I” exclaimed Bertha, fervently. 

“ Halloo, Ralph, my boy ! — glad to see you !” was 
the hearty greeting of Bertha’s strange ally, as he held 
out a hand to assist the young man from the boat, — 
“ don’t believe you know me, though.” 

“ Yes I do,” said Ralph, looking very wise, — “you’re 
Mr. Bolton.” 

“ Mr. Bolton, am I ? you young scamp I A pretty 
way you’ve treated an old friend I — been home a year, 
and never been to see him !” 

“ I’ve been sick,” said the poor boy, apologetically, — 


318 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ haven’t I, miss ? — very sick.” And he turned for 
corroboration of his statement to his cousin, who could 
hardly restrain the tears that were threatening to over- 
power her at this, to her, supreme moment. 

“ How soon can you get off?” she asked of Mr. 
Bolton, in a low, agitatbd voice. 

“Well, Miss Berthy, I allowed to give Master 
Ralph some supper before we set out, for you know 
we take the boat at a mere cotton-landing, and thar’s 
no chance of his hunger being satisfied anywheres be- 
tween this and the boat’s table ; so I calculate it will 
be about an hour longer before we get fairly started.” 

“Who drives you?” was Bertha’s next anxious in- 
terrogatory. 

“Old Jake, miss; and as he hates the gentleman 
on the other side of Silver Lake worse than he does 
the gentleman down below, a mighty safe driver he’ll 
make for our purposes.” 

Then the time for Bertha to say good-by to the be- 
loved one, for whose sake she was periling so much, had 
come, and the brave girl, who had plotted and schemed 
and counterplotted so adroitly and so fearlessly for his 
dear sake, stood there clinging to the weak arm that 
could afford her no help, — trembling and weeping in 
very terror of the possible consequences of her own 
scheme. 

“ Mr. Bolton, — good Mr. Bolton, — take good care of 
him ; don’t leave him out of your sight until he is 
safe in Dr. Gardiner’s hands ; and oh, please, Mr. Bol- 
ton, ask that good man to send me one little line by 
you, telling me whether I have done right or wrong ; 
for now that the thing is about to be put to the test, 
I feel so frightened, so terror-stricken, supposing I am 
working harm for dear Ralph in place of good.” 

Then Jack Bolton turned comforter : 

“ How can you be workin’ harm. Miss Berthy, in 
sending your cousin to one of the very first doctors in 
the city? — and you say the French lady over yonder 
says that of him.” 


OUTWITTED, 


319 


“ So she does, and so he is a good doctor,” said Ber- 
tha, wiping her eyes and brightening up once more. 

“ And, Miss Berthy,” resumed her manager, “ as far 
as my part of the contract goes, please don’t you spend 
no more trouble about it. Jack Bolton is a friend to 
them that’s a friend to him; but he ain’t one of your 
Bible good-folks that turns t’other cheek when one’s 
been slapped, and a gentleman, what shall be nameless, 
has put many a insult upon Jack Bolton sence the 
rightful owners of the Tanglewood plantation is been 
underground ; an’ ef it hadn’t been that I thought, by 
sticking to the old place, Major Snowe’s grandchild 
and Miss Rebecca’s daughter would be the better off, 
in the long run, than she might otherwise be. Jack 
Bolton would have give notice and quit some good time 
back ; so you needn’t be troublin’ yourself about havin’ 
led the lamb, called Jack Bolton, astray. Miss Berthy, 
for the lamb 'has cut his eye teeth long before you ever 
seed the light.” 

Bertha hardly heard, or hardly comprehended, what 
the man was saying to her. She had no time to stop 
and analyze Mr. Bolton’s character or motives, she 
only knew that his devotion to her family had been 
proven, and she was perfectly willing to trust in him 
in this emergency. She extracted the letter she had 
written to Dr. Gardiner from her pocket, and giving 
it, with the card containing that gentleman’s address, 
into Mr. Bolton’s hand, she pressed one trembling kiss 
upon her cousin’s lips, and turning her back upon the 
two men, she almost ran back to the skiff. 

Where is she going?” asked Ralph of Mr. Bolton, 
looking after his cousin’s rapidly-retreating form with 
vague sadness in his mournful eyes. 

“ She’ll be back presently,” said Mr. Bolton, draw- 
ing the young man’s arm within his own ; “ come, 
let’s go up to the house and have a bite of supper.” 

Ralph followed docilely, and as the little skiff backed 
out from the shore, Bertha saw through her blinding 
tears the tall, slight figure of her cousin, and the 


320 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


heavy, burly form of the manager, disappear through 
the wicket that led into the yard at Tanglewood. 

The two negroes who were officiating as oarsmen 
were the two trusty boys, Gus and Hiram, whose de- 
votion to Ralph Barrow and Bertha Lombard was 
only equaled by their unspoken, but unmitigated, 
hatred of Dr. Reynard. Therefore to insure their 
silence was no difficult undertaking. A few words, 
spoken by Bertha on the return trip, was all that was 
faecessary. On the principle that a hint to the wise 
was sufficient. Miss Lombard purposely spoke vaguely, 
for it was exceedingly distasteful to her to have to 
admit two of her aunt’s slaves into her confidence in 
any degree, but Ralph’s safety demanded this sacrifice 
of pride, also, therefore she spoke the necessary pre- 
caution, — 

“ Gus, do you and Hiram love your Mars’ Ralphy 
as much as you pretend to ?” 

“ Try us, missy,” was the significant reply from both. 

“Well, then, you will answer no questions from any 
one at all that will injure your master. I will answer 
all and every question myself, and I am the person 
I want every one to question.” 

“Yes, missy,” said the two oarsmen, and their 
shrewd, twinkling black eyes gave indication that they 
fully comprehended the role assigned them. They 
were to “ play stupid,” as Hiram murmured, in a low 
voice, to his fellow-oarsman when Bertha’s attention 
seemed absorbed in contemplating some object on the 
Aland side of the lake which they were now rapidly 
approaching. And I defy the whole universe to pro- 
duce a race of human beings who are such accom- 
plished adepts in the art of “playing stupid” when 
occasion demands. 

As the skiff touched the home-bank, Bertha directed 
the attention of the negroes to the object which she 
herself had been so anxiously contemplating for a few 
moments. 

“ Whose horse is that, Gus, that Rob is watering ?” 


OUTWITTED. 


321 


Gus turned his head in the direction indicated, and 
then replied, promptly, ‘‘ I don’ know, missy ; he don’ 
belong on dis place.” 

“ Call Rob this way,” said Bertha, in a quick, anxi- 
ous voice. 

One stentorian call brought the little black jockey 
cantering up to the spot where Bertha, who had left 
the skiff by this time, stood in trembling apprehension 
of — she knew not what. 

“ Whose horse is that, Rob ?” she demanded of the 
small urchin, who looked wonderfully like a gorilla, 
perched upon the large, raw-boned animal’s back. 

“ I don’ know, missy,” replied Rob, phlegmatically, 
“less’n mout be Mr. Jones’s ole bay mar’; tho’ his’n’s 
tale’s bobder than this’n’s.” And Rob, turning side- 
wise in the saddle, cast a contemplative glance back- 
ward upon the caudal extremity under discussion. 

“Is Mr. Jones in the house?” asked the young 
girl, breathing a little freer. 

“ No’m,” was Rob’s unsatisfying reply. 

“ Then, who rode his horse here ?” asked Bertha, 
waxing impatient. 

“ Mars’ doctor rid him, missy,” said Rob, placidly. 

Bertha started violently. “ Why didn’t you tell me 
that at first, you stupid boy ?” she exclaimed, ex- 
citedly. 

“ ’Cause, missy, you never axed me. You axed me 
whose mar’ this’n belonged to.” And Rob, presuming 
his examination concluded, stuck his bare heels into 
the mare’s flanks and galloped away. 

“My God I my God I” exclaimed Bertha, aloud, 
“ and Mr. Bolton said it would be one whole hour be- 
fore they should leave. He will bring him back ! he 
will bring him back ! What shall I do ? what shall I 
do?” 

“ Missy,” said Gus, speaking respectfully, but hur- 
riedly, “the fishin’s mighty good on t’other side ov 
the lake, an’ ef you kiu keep things quiet in-do’s for 
28 


322 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


fifteen minutes more, thar won’t be nary boat on this 
side of Silver Lake for the next four hours.” 

“ This be a fus’-rate night for giggin’ fish,” cried 
Hiram, enthusiastically, “ an’ this nigger’s gwine to 
git his torches ready in a hurry.” And shouldering an 
oar, he started off briskly toward the quarters. Gus 
took the hint, and, shouldering the other oar, followed 
in Hiram’s wake at an energetic trot, leaving the little 
skiff useless for all present purposes. 

Bertha’s soul was filled with the most tumultuous 
agitation. Dr. Reynard had returned most unexpect- 
edly. Ralph’s capture was imminent. On the chance 
of preventing him from discovering the course she 
had taken until all possibility of his crossing the lake 
in pursuit of the poor fugitive, rested her one hope. 
What should she say to him ? How keep that knowl- 
edge from him ? Her brain was in such a whirl she 
could not think. Her limbs trembled under her, so 
that she tottered rather than walked to the house. 
Everything was dark in the main building ; she sup- 
posed he had gone direct to Ralph’s sitting-room, 
thither she would follow as soon as she had given 
herself one moment in which to collect her scattered 
ideas. She passed on to her own room, and divesting 
herself of her hat and mantle, she clasped her hands 
tightly above her head, imploring divine direction and 
assistance in this the moment of her cousin’s extremest 
peril. Five fatal moments she spent within her own 
apartment. 


DNMASKED. 


323 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

UNMASKED. 

This is what had happened within the house at 
Aland during the short half-hour of Bertha Lombard’s 
absence : 

After the daring girl had come into Miss Chevreul’s 
presence and invited her cousin to go with her, the 
two had passed out before her, leaving her under the 
impression that they were gone merely for a short 
stroll. The lateness of the hour precluded any other 
conjecture. s 

Bertha’s efforts in her cousin’s behalf had been at- 
tended with such happy results that Miss Chevreul 
had gradually discontinued her own surveillance of 
the young man, the more especially as she had in- 
formed his stepfather, by letter, of the existing state 
of affairs, and. had presumed from his silence that he 
acquiesced in the existing state of things. Moreover, 
her own rapidly-failing health completely unfitted the 
unhappy woman for any active exertion ; therefore 
she was hardly more than a companion to the two 
young people over whom she had been left as virtual 
spy and jailer. 

She was looking forward eagerly to the return of 
the family. It would be her release. Poor, broken 
creature, she, too, had her plans for the future. When 
are we too old or too feeble to form them ? She would 
go to the good Sisters of the Good Shepherd and beg 
them to take her in as one of them. She would spend 
the residue of her days in serving Him who spake 
those comfortable words : “ Go in peace, thy sins are 
forgiven thee.” If finite love could bring such balm 
as had Bertha Lombard’s to her darkened soul, what 


324 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


could not infinite love do for her ? Soft bright dreams of 
a happy future, still possible even for her, were float- 
ing vaguely through her mind, when the door of the 
sitting-room where she sat dreaming her day-dreams 
was rudely burst open, and John Reynard stalked into 
her presence, putting to flight her peaceful fancies with 
his harsh voice : 

“ What in the devil is the matter in this house ? Is 
everybody dead? It is almost night, and I have had 
to stumble through Egyptian darkness to get to this 
room ; and now that I’m here, I find no one but you. 
What does it all mean ? And where are my stepson 
and Bertha Lombard ?” 

Rosine Chevreul had started into a sitting posture 
as these harsh sounds fell upon her ear, and, as was 
invariably the case lately, her sudden motion brought 
on a violent spell of coughing. 

The brute who had so startled her stood on the 
hearth-rug looking down upon her wasted form and 
sunken features and listened to the cruel cough which 
be knew better than she betokened galloping con- 
sumption, without one grain of pity in his rocky heart ; 
for he was devoured by a savage uneasiness at the ab- 
sence from her presence of the poor imbecile he had 
left as her prisoner. 

“ Stop that cursed coughing, and answer me, can’t 
you ?” What was the use of wearing a mask before 
her — his tool ? 

The cough stopped of itself presently, and then 
Rosine, looking up timidly into the harsh face of her 
interlocutor, replied, — 

“I am looking for them every moment. Dr. Rey- 
nard ; they just went out for a short walk. Bertha 
never keeps him out late.” 

“I’ll be d — d, madame,” said the counterfeit gentle- 
man, purpling with rage, “ if your answer does not 
betoken a very decided degree of good fellowship be- 
tween Miss Lombard and her cousin!” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Rosine, innocently, “ they are on 


UNMASKED. 


325 


the very best of terms. Bertha can do anything she 
pleases with him.” 

“ The devil she can 1” exclaimed Dr. Reynard ; ‘‘ and 
how long, may I ask, madame, since you relinquished 
the duties you were paid for performing into Miss 
Lombard’s hands ?” 

“ I never relinquished them, sir ; but Bertha insisted 
upon being with him, and you will be delighted to see 
what a change she has wrought in him. He is like a 
new being.” 

“ Hell and fury !” roared the baffled brute, springing 
wildly to his feet. “ Curse you, why did you not send 
me word of the change in him, as I ordered you to do ?” 

But the Frenchwoman sat, white and stunned, an- 
swering never a word. Was that coarse brute the 
gentleman before whom she had hung her head in 
abasement! What did his mad fury mean ? It looked 
like the rage of defeat. Did it mean that he was sorry 
and not glad at the improvement in his stepson ? Had 
he cursed her because she had failed to make a more 
efficient accomplice ? What else could it mean ? Ah, 
Bertha had been as wise as she had been foolish. But, 
heavens, what an abyss of dark guilt and premedi- 
tated crime those few passionate words of the unmasked 
schemer had opened to view I 

“ Why do you stare at me with those graveyard 
eyes,” cried the infuriated wretch, “ instead of answer- 
ing my questions? Why did you not write to me, I 
say ? I ordered the slightest change, for better or 
worse, to be reported.” 

I did write. I wrote twice,” answered the gov- 
erness, in a slow, reluctant voice, as if she only an- 
swered for fear of further violence if she kept silent. 
Then she rose feebly from her chair, eager to escape 
from his coarse presence to the refuge of her own 
chamber. 

'‘You lie, you poor, weak, miserable, white-faced 
traitress !” And, as she rose from her chair, the dastard, 
maddened by the sudden and unexpected frustration 
28 * 


326 


DEAD MEN>S SHOES. 


of his cherished scheme, caught the fragile form of the 
ten’ified womau, and, shaking her savagely a moment, 
he flung her back into her chair, exclaiming, in a voice 
thick with passion, “Stay there, curse you, until I find 
out all I want to know !” 

One wild cry of frightened horror from the white 
lips of the Frenchwoman, — then, with a gurgling gasp, 
her head fell forward upon her breast, and a bright red 
stream of her life’s blood welled slowly over her pallid 
lips. 

“ God, a blood-vessel broken !” And the wretch who 
had done the deed sprang wildly toward the bell-rope, 
ringing furiously for assistance. 

It was at this moment that Bertha Lombard opened 
the sitting-room door. Her face was as white and 
rigid as the face of a marble statue. Her eyes glowed 
wdth the light of a great and defiant resolution. She 
had resolved, while praying for strength to meet this 
man, to tell him as much of the truth as she dared, 
and then defy him to do his worst. But, while steel- 
ing her nerves to this fearless course, she had tarried, 
and while she tarried poor Rosine ChevreuPs death- 
warrant had been sealed. The sight that met her 
gaze as she stood upon the threshold froze her with 
horror. 

Dr. Reynard, his own face white and terrified, was 
leaning over the body of his victim, which he had lifted 
from the chair and laid upon a sofa. The blood was 
still oozing from her lips and dropping slowly down 
into a hideous pool upon the carpet. 

“Wretch! fiend I have you murdered her?” cried 
Bertha, excitedly, springing toward the sofa. “ Is she 
dead ? Speak I What have you done to her ? Tell me ! 
My poor friend I poor Rosine I why was I not here to 
protect you 1” 

Time enough had been granted John Reynard to 
readjust his mask. Self-preservation was now his one 
thought. 

“ My dear niece,” he spoke in as steady a voice as 
he could command, “calm yourself, I pray. I have 


UNMASKED. 


327 


been in the house hardly twenty minutes, and, as I 
entered this room, I heard what I presume must have 
been the final articulation of a most agonizing spell of 
coughing. As I advanced toward Miss ChevreuPs 
arm-chair I was alarmed at the sight of blood oozing 
from her lips. I presume she has broken a blood-vessel 
during her coughing spell. We will hope that it is a 
small one, in which case a few^days of perfect quiet 
will entirely restore her.” 

“ Poor dear ! poor dear !” cried Bertha, believing 
him ; and, kneeling down by the side of the unconscious 
sufferer, she wiped the thick clots of blood tenderly 
from the white lips, while hot tears of compassionate 
sorrow fell unheeded on the sunken lids of Rosine’s 
sealed eyes. “ All alone, too !” she murmured, pity- 
ingly. “Ah, how sad! how sad!” 

Assistance had come in answer to the bell, and Dr. 
Reynard had the body of his victim conveyed into her 
own room, where he went to work in earnest to restore 
animation. Bertha begged to be allowed to assist. 
“ You can do no good, Bertha,” said the physician, 
calmly but firmly ; “ I require more experienced aid than 
you can offer, and it will only unnerve you to be with 
her at present. Remain in here, my dear niece, and 
rest assured that if you can do your friend any good 
you shall be called.” 

He insisted on excluding Bertha, for his guilty soul 
trembled at the strong probability of being denounced 
as a murderer, if Rosiue Chevreul should ever speak 
again. 

Bertha yielded, for she longed for a little fuller op- 
portunity to prepare herself for the trying interview 
she must inevitably have with her uncle so soon as 
Miss ChevreuPs alarming condition should allow him 
time to inquire for the missing heir of Aland. She 
had no reason to doubt the truth of his statement that 
he had found Rosine in the condition described, and as 
she seated herself to keep her lonely vigil in the room 
adjoining Rosine’s, she took herself severely to task 


328 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


for the harsh and uncalled-for accusations she had 
hurled at him in her first excitement. 

“ I hate him so that I am afraid I manufacture bad 
traits for him,” she murmured, remorsefully. The little 
clock on the mantel struck ten before anything came 
to break the monotony of waiting. Then Dr. Reynard 
himself came softly out of the sick-room into the sitting- 
room, his feet incased in noiseless slippers, and his 
face wearing an expression of grave benevolence and 
sympathetic kindness. Drawing his chair close up to 
Bertha’s, he uttered a pious ejaculation in a suppressed 
voice, — 

“ Thank God, she is much better I The bleeding 
is stanched, and her respiration is much improved.” 

“ Has she spoken ?” asked Bertha, eagerly. “ Did 
she ask for me ?” 

“ She is conscious, my love, but entirely too much 
prostrated to speak. At present all she needs is sleep. 
I have administered an opiate, and left her in good 
hands.” 

Bertha drew her breath hard, as one does when 
making ready for a good fight, and clasping her two 
little hands tightly together, she awaited his opening 
question. But it was not a question, it was merely a 
polite observation, — 

“ I was so much alarmed, my dear niece, at finding 
Miss Chevreul in so critical a condition, on my en- 
trance, that I really have had no time even to think 
of other matters. Your looks tell me that you have 
preserved your wonted good health during my absence. 
I hope the cold weather has dealt equally kindly by 
our dear boy.” 

‘‘ My cousin is wonderfully improved.” Bertha’s 
voice was a little nervous at first. 

“ I presume, from not seeing him, that he still ob- 
serves his usual early hours for retiring.” 

“Dr. Reynard,” said Bertha, now in full armor, 
looking him bravely and defiantly in the face, “ I am 
heartily glad that you have come home alone, for 


UNMASKED, 


329 


aunt^s absence gives me an excellent opportunity to 
tell you the truth, and tuen whatever further need 
there may be for lying and duplicity will rest with 
yourself.” 

Dr. Reynard listened to this peroration in silent 
astonishment. 

“I know,” she resumed, “that what I am going to 
tell you will enrage you so against me that I expect 
to find my aunt’s doors closed against me, — that is, if 
you deem proper to tell her honestly what I have done 
and what I am about to tell you. You know I was 
compelled by you to discontinue the efforts to restore 
my cousin’s memory, which were bearing such evident 
good fruit, and you purposely excluded me, and me 
alone, from all association with him.” 

Dr. Reynard’s brow was growing black. “I did 
that which my judgment as a physician dictated as 
best for my wife’s unfortunate son. Your defying 
my commands is, to say the least of it, bold in the ex- 
treme.” 

“ I was presumptuous enough to think from the very 
first that you erred in judgment [here the faintest little 
sarcastic emphasis], but that was the worst I thought 
of you at first. I secretly resolved, however, if the 
opportunity ever offered, to resume the course which 
had promised such happy results, and for that purpose 
refused to accompany the family to New Orleans.” 

Dr. Reynard seemed intent upon swallowing his 
moustache. 

“ As soon as you left, I defied the gentle authority 
of that poor tool of yours in the other room, and took 
complete charge of my cousin during the day. I 
walked with him, played for him, took him riding, and 
ate all my meals with him and Miss Rosine. I did 
not do this with her consent. I did it in direct oppo- 
sition to her repeated protests. She wrote to you about 
it, but so determined was I to put my theory to the test 
that I burned her letter instead of mailing it.” 

“ Your candor is only equaled by your presump- 


330 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


tion,’’ interpolated her listener, sneeringly. “ Proceed 
with your romantic recital.” 

Bertha’s eyes flashed a little, but her voice remained 
calm and steady. “Ralph was improving steadily, in 
spite of the tonic you had left in poor Miss Chevreul’s 
hands for him, when, by a God-sent chance, I discov- 
ered that your tonic was absinthe, and at the same 
time -was instructed in the baleful nature of absinthe.” 

White with rage, the baffled schemer had been sitting 
powerless before the girl who towered so majestically 
above him in her sublimely-fearless morality. But at 
the unexpected announcement of the discovery of his 
absinthe fraud, he was surprised out of his sneering 
composure, and exclaimed, unguardedly, “ Who has 
been here in my absence ?” 

“ Some one who was both willing and able to give 
me good and disinterested advice about my poor 
cousin ; some one sent here direct by God. But who 
he was or where he lives is not a portion of the ‘ ro- 
mantic recital’ I am going to give you,” was the reck- 
lessly-defiant answer. 

“Let us have some more,” was the sneering re- 
joinder, while a pair of burning, malignant eyes were 
fastened, glowing with hatred, upon the girl’s beautiful 
face. 

“ I destroyed that box of tonic,” she resumed, 
calmly, “ and Miss Rosine notified you of its destruc- 
tion. That letter I destroyed also.” 

“ The devil you did ! It seems that Mrs. Lombard’s 
perfect daughter is pretty good at shabby tricks her- 
self,” said the brute, who would gladly have struck her. 

“Mrs. Lombard’s daughter has been compelled to 
fight you with your own weapons,” retorted the girl, 
boldly. “You have measured out deception and lies, 
and I have meted them unto you again. I deplored 
the necessity, but bowed to it as a necessity. The 
frank avowal I am now making is because, as no 
danger to Ralph can accrue from a full confession, I 
prefer making it to continuing any longer in the prac- 


UJSMASKED. 


331 


tice of deception and fraud, — a practice I am totally 
unfamiliar with.” 

“And what heroic step did your exalted conscience 
dictate next, after having burned my letters and de- 
stroyed the medicine left for my stepson ?” 

“Oh,” replied Bertha, quite simply, “there was 
really very little left for me to do, for he improved so 
rapidly that even now he may be pronounced on the 
fair road to recovery.” 

Dr. Beynard controlled himself by a powerful effort. 
It had been enraging to be defied and interfered with 
thus by a daring girl, but he smiled at her folly in 
thinking to overreach him. He congratulated himself 
that he should see his son before his mother should re- 
turn, and have an opportunity to undo this girl’s bold 
work. He wanted to be alone to concoct new plans 
He rose from his chair. 

“ I shall wait until the morning, my dear, before 
congratulating you upon your superior judgment in 
this case, as I should like to judge for myself as to my 
stepson’s improvement. I am still presumptuous 
enough to rate my own opinion above yours. You 
have said some coolly-insulting things to-night, which 
I suppose I shall have to overlook in consideration of 
your youth and sex. But let me tell you that, in future, 
if I should ever leave you behind me, you will remem- 
ber that the doors of Aland are not to be opened to any 
traveling quacks. I shall have to see Ralph before 
knowing whether to scold or thank you.” 

Bertha rose to her feet as she answered, very quietly, 
“ Ralph is not here. Dr. Reynard.” 

“Not here I” roared John Reynard. “ Where is he ?” 

“ Gone on a visit to that traveling quack,” was the 
cool reply. 

“What!” — and his face was livid, — “do you mean 
to tell me that he is gone, — gone out of this house, — is 
actually nowhere on these premises ?” 

“ Is actually nowhere on these premises I” repeated 
the undaunted girl, her eyes flashing with triumph and 


332 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


with indignation ; “ and I know by your uncontrollable 
excitement,” she added, “that he has not gone one 
moment too soon. I know now that all my very 
worst suspicions of you were correct. Dr. Reynard, 
you were purposely keeping my poor cousin in his 
helpless condition in order to retain his fortune in your 
own hands. I charge you with it to your face, and 
you dare not deny it !” And Ralph Barrow’s beautiful 
avenger fixed her flashing brown eyes upon the craven 
wretch before her, until his guilty eyes quailed before 
her dauntless gaze. 

“Girl!” he exclaimed, goaded to desperation, “are 
you not afraid to brave me thus ? Are you not afraid 
to avow so boldly what you have done ? If I am 
really the wretch you denounce me for, why do you 
not tremble for your own weak self?” 

“ No, I am not afraid,” she answered, proudly ; “ and 
shall I tell you why ? It is because you are not a 
daring, reckless scoundrel who would endanger his 
own precious person to accomplish his ends. I would 
think better of you if you were. Bad as you are, the 
world’s good opinion is very dear to you, and whom 
you stab must be stabbed in the dark. At this mo- 
ment your soul is full enough of black hatred of me to 
make you murder me, if it could be done with impu- 
nity ; but it could not, and, therefore, I am as safe as if 
I had a host of armed defenders at my back, instead of 
being almost alone with you in this great empty house.” 

Dr. Reynerd glared at her calmly-scornful face in 
impotent rage. This was a new order of women to 
him. He was used to coaxing, or flattering, or cowing, 
or threatening women into measures. But here was a 
creature — a slight, girlish thing — whom he could crush 
physically with one blow, who laughed his fiercest 
wrath to scorn and treated him with a lofty contempt 
that goaded him to the maddest fury, while it left him 
utterly powerless to cope with her. 

With a muttered curse he sprang from his chair, and, 
seizing his hat, he rushed from the house. 


UNMASKED. 


333 


He must find out something from the negroes that 
would put him upon the track of his escaped victim. 

Gus was the carriage-driver. She could not have 
sent her cousin away without Gus knowing it. But 
neither Gus nor Hiram, the two yard-boys, were to be 
found. Inquiries at the quarter elicited the fact that 
they were both absent on a torchlight fishing excursion. 
No one could give the frenzied man any information 
that could elucidate matters. The carriage had not 
been out of the carriage-house since mistiss had left. 
The horse hadn’t been saddled that day. No one knew 
whether Miss Lombard had been across the lake or not. 
Universal ignorance prevailed throughout the quarter. 
The “I don’ know, master,” was deeply - respectful, 
but fearfully monotonous, returned as it was in unva- 
rying cadences to his irritated questions. Nothing, 
nothing was to be gleaned, and, like a wild beast, John 
Reynard raged up and down the lake-shore shielded 
by the darkness. Cursing the blind folly that had 
made him trust such vital interests to the guardianship 
of a weak woman ; cursing the mistake he had made 
in fearing so little from the proud, brave girl who had 
so completely outwitted him ; cursing the boy who 
had escaped his clutches ; cursing the necessity that 
had kept him glued to Helen’s side ; cursing everything 
and everybody, only pausing long enough, once in 
awhile in his mad tramp, to send a stentorian call across 
the dark waters of the sleeping lake, in a vain effort to 
recall one of the numerous fishing-boats that were 
gliding backward and forward along the farther bank ; 
the torches held over their prows to illuminate the 
clear depths of the water, looking, with their elongated 
reflections, like huge fiery exclamation points, in which 
the spirits of the night uttered their burning protests 
against the blasphemous wretch who was making night 
hideous with man’s inhumanity to man. 

Baffled at every point, John Reynard returned to the 
house. He re-entered the sitting-room. Bertha was 
not there. He tapped upon the door of Rosine’s room. 


334 


DEAD HEN’S SHOES. 


Bertha opened it to him. He passed by her and bent 
over the sick woman. 

“No danger of her talking to-night,” he muttered to 
himself. And without a word to any one, he passed 
out again, this time proceeding to his own room, where 
he was soon sleeping a troubled sleep. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 

All night long Bertha kept her loving vigil over 
Rosine ChevreuPs sick-bed. The heavy, deathlike 
slumber into which the suffering woman had fallen 
from sheer prostration continued unbroken until day- 
break; then, as Bertha, who had tip-toed softly to the 
fireplace to replenish the andirons, was seating herself 
once more in the arm-chair, close under the shaded 
lamp, where she had been trying to read, in order to 
keep her heavy lids from closing, her attention was at- 
tracted by a heavy sigh from the sick-bed, and, glancing 
quickly in that direction, she saw a white, attenuated 
hand held up toward her in a beckoning attitude. First 
turning the lamp up a little higher, Bertha hastened 
forward, and, bending over the sufferer, she spoke to 
her in a tender, gentle voice, — 

“You are better, dear Miss Rosine, are you not?” 

A loving look of recognition from Rosine ChevreuPs 
dark eyes and a fluttering motion of the thin, white 
lips was all the answer Bertha received. 

“Are you in pain anywhere, dear? Does it hurt 
you to try to speak ?” 

Again the pallid lips moved as if forming words, but 
no sound issued from them. Rosine ChevreuPs voice 
was gone! 


BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 


335 


In anxious alarm Bertha dispatched one of the 
nurses, who was keeping watch with her, for Dr. Rey- 
nard. 

He dressed hastily and answered the summons 
promptly, for he feared to leave Bertha alone with his 
victim, now that she was awake and might possibly 
divulge the story of his brutality. When he entered 
the sick-room, Bertha was sitting upon the side of the 
bed holding both the little, attenuated hands of the 
sufferer in her own warm clasp, and talking to her in 
tender, soothing accents, trying to instill into her faint- 
ing heart hopes of a recovery, which she did not her- 
self dare believe possible. As John Reynard made 
his appearance at her bedside, the dark, mournful eyes 
which had been fixed upon Bertha Lombard’s sweet 
face with so earnest and loving a gaze were turned 
upon him with a gaze of such unmistakable horror 
that Bertha started up in alarm. 

“My God ! What is the matter with her? — Is she 
dying ? — Is it the death spasm ? Oh I why does she 
look at you so fearfully ?” 

“Leave the room and send Dora to me!” cried the 
arch-schemer, peremptorily. Bertha was frightened 
into prompt obedience, for she believed that her unfor- 
tunate friend was passing into her death agony, and 
she could not stay and witness sufferings which she 
was utterly powerless to ameliorate. 

Rosine Chevreul followed her retreating form with a 
despairing gaze. Frantically she strove to send some 
sound over her quivering lips to implore the uncon- 
scious girl to come back to her, — to stay by her, — not 
to leave her alone with the man who had already half 
murdered her. And as the door closed upon Bertha’s 
form she brought her eyes back to bear upon the man 
who stood before her, and in their speechless, despair- 
ing glance he read her thoughts plainly, — she believed 
he was going to complete the work begun yesterday, — 
that the man who had already half murdered her was 
about to complete her destruction. 


336 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


But John Reynard had still a hope of making use of 
this poor broken tool. 

“ Miss Rosine,” he said, stooping over her, and as- 
suming a most penitential aspect, “ God alone knows 
how I have suffered for my mad act of yesterday. I 
can know no rest by night, no peace by day, until as- 
sured of your forgiveness. If you cannot grant me 
that forgiveness with your lips> will you just write it 
upon this slip of paper And, placing a piece of 
paper upon the bedside, he securely fastened a lead- 
pencil between her thin fingers; then he held the 
trembling hand over the paper, saying, in a voice 
partly pleading, partly peremptory, “ Write.” 

Slowly and feebly the tremulous fingers traced the 
words, “ Ask God to forgive you as I do, — freely. I 
am punished for having unwittingly aided you.” 

“ As a token that your forgiveness really is free and 
full, write me a promise,” he continued. “ The knowl- 
edge that I have caused you such unmerited suffering 
will of itself haunt me to my dying day, and be your 
avenger. Promise me that you will not make me an 
object of loathing to my innocent family by divulging 
the brutal part I acted yesterday.” 

“ You are safe,” wrote the feeble hand. And then, 
letting the pencil drop from her trembling grasp, she 
turned her head toward the wall to rid herself of the 
sight of this abject creature, who plead so piteously 
with her not to use the little remnant of life left in her 
shattered body for purposes of finite vengeance. Poor 
mean reptile ! 

But John Reynard was not yet done with her. To 
discover from her who had been at Aland during his 
absence, and had given Bertha Lombard such efficient 
aid in outwitting him, was his one hope of gaining a 
clue to Ralph’s present whereabouts. 

But here he reaped what he had sowed. If he had 
not unmasked himself so completely in his blind rage 
the day before, if he had only counterfeited the gentle- 
man a little while longer, he would have been furnished 


BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 


33T 


with the information which he was now burning to 
possess himself of. For Bertha Lombard, in pursu- 
ance of her generous determination not to implicate 
Miss Chevreul in any degree, had been compelled to 
leave the matter of Dr. Gardiner’s visitation liable to 
discovery. She had trusted to chance that so casual 
an occurrence, and one of such remote date, would not 
transpire in the interchange of household gossip, and 
had looked upon this as the weakest point in her whole 
line of mystification. By showing himself in his true 
colors to Rosine Chevreul, Dr. Reynard had himself 
strengthened this point for his girlish adversary, for, 
whereas yesterday Miss Chevreul would have known 
no reason why she should not have answered any di- 
rect question put to her, to-day she saw everything 
under the glaring light of truth, and very hideous did 
John Reynard and his black designs look in that light. 

“Rosine!” 

She turned her head quickly toward him. Once 
more reaching her hand out again for the pencil, she 
wrote, “ Why do you not go ? I have written your 
pardon ; I have promised your safety ; your presence 
is loathsome. Leave me, and send Bertha back to me.” 

“One question, my dear mademoiselle, I must beg 
you to answer me, and then I will promise you not to 
disturb you with my unwelcome presence any longer. 
Bertha has seen fit to take a most unwarrantable step 
during the absence of Mrs. Reynard in allowing her 
cousin to go on a visit to a perfect stranger to both of 
us I presume, from her account and yours, that my 
stepson is marvelously improved ; and, believe me, I 
only wish to satisfy myself that the person whom he 
has gone to visit is such a one as his mother could 
receive in her own house. Bertha tells me that she 
has kept you in profound ignorance of her plans re- 
specting her cousin. She says that you are at perfect 
liberty to answer any questions I may see fit to ask 
you ; therefore, you see that you will not be betraying 
her confidence in replying truthfully to what I ?im 


338 


DEAD MEX'S SHOES. 


about to ask you. What strauger has my niece seen 
fit to receive at Aland during the absence of the family 

“A benighted stranger, whose carriage broke down 
in front of the house,” she feebly traced upon the paper. 

“ What was his name ?” 

But Rosine merely shook her head, for the exertion 
of writing so much was proving too great for her 
nerveless hand. 

“Do you mean that you do not know his name?” 
asked John Reynard, bending a look of greedy, search- 
ing inquiry upon the speaking eyes of the sick woman. 

She reached out her hand again for the pencil, and 
wrote, in quavering lines, “ Go away, and let me die in 
peace !” 

“ You mean,” he muttered, savagely, “ that you will 
not tell me ?” 

The look in the dark eyes raised now so fearlessly 
to his was plainly affirmative of this last conjecture. 

“ Has that infernal little marplot bewitched you, 
too, that you will not utter a word to jeopardize her 
impudent schemes ?” 

Rosine Chevreul gathered all her waning energies 
to protest against this rude attack upon her darling. 
Once more her trembling hand grasped the lead-pencil: 

“ Bertha Lombard is the noblest woman God ever 
created. She is as pure as an angel, as fearless as a 
spirit. I will die before I will write one word that 
could injure her in any way. If she wishes you to 
know who has been here, she will tell you herself , — 1 
will not. Go, and let me die in peace. I have not one 
word more to say to you.” 

“ Curse you, then die ! and the quicker the better I” 
And, with a savage oath, he turned and strode out of 
the room, almost stumbling over old Dora, who had 
entered unperceived by him, and was standing on the 
other side of the bed-curtains. 

“How is she?” asked Bertha, eagerly, who was 
waiting in the adjoining room to hear in what that 
convulsive look of horror had terminated. 


BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 


339 


“ It was nothing,” said Dr. Reynard, composing his 
features and his lie in the short space of half a second. 
“It was merely a spasmodic contraction of the muscles 
of her face, which passed off in a second. I adminis- 
tered an opiate, and you had probably better not return 
to her until it has had time to take effect. Dora is in 
there with her.” 

“ Very well, then,” said Bertha. “ We will go in to 
breakfast ; it has been waiting for some little while.” 
And she led the way toward the breakfast-room. 

As Dr. Reynard took his seat he discovered upon his 
plate a letter addressed to him in the well-known callig- 
raphy of the manager at Tanglewood. He opened it 
and read as follows : 

“ To Dr. John Reynard. 

“Esteemed Sir, — You will discover by the here- 
within inclosed inclosure that the most pressing call 
is taking me away from my business at a most un- 
seasonable season. If you can find any reliable man 
to follow up the plow-hands in my absence, I will be 
much indebted, and will pay the damage on my return. 

“ Your most obedient servant, 

“Jack Bolton, 

“ SupH of Affairs on the Tanglewood Plantation.’’^ 

The “ inclosure inclosed” within this verbose docu- 
ment was a little crumpled scrap of paper, which con- 
tained a few words only, written in a hand which vied 
with Mr. Bolton’s own for amplitude of curves and 
dashes ; 

“Dear Brother Jack, — If you want to see poor 
ole marmer alive once more, come straight home. 

“ Your loving sister, 

“ Martha.” 

“ What in the ” Dr. Reynard checked himself, 

and fell to chewing his moustache savagely. He had 


840 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


intended crossing the lake immediately after breakfast, 
and trying to extract some information from that quar- 
ter; but here was Mr. Bolton gone off to the southern 
part of Georgia, as he discovered by looking at the 
name of the town from which Miss Martha Bolton had 
dispatched her hasty summons. Then it flashed upon 
him that possibly this was part of the plan to deceive 
him. He would give Bertha the two notes to read, 
and then watch her face closely as she read. Surely 
she was not such a finished deceiver but that her ingen- 
uous face would give some token of complicity in the 
writing of these notes, if they were really intended as 
blinds. So he leaned forward and tossed the two 
notes upon the teatray in front of his niece. 

“ Your manager has seen fit to leave home, Bertha, 
at a most unseasonable moment. It is really quite 
vexatious.” 

Bertha picked the notes up and read them both 
through with the most imperturbable countenance, say- 
ing, as she laid them down again, “ Poor Mr. Bolton ! 
Letter- writing is not much in his line. But you surely 
do not blame him for going to see his poor old dying 
mother, do you 

Baffled again. Dr. Reynard fell to eating his break- 
fast in moody silence. 

The secret of Bertha’s imperturbability was this : 
When old Jake had returned from conveying Mr. Bol- 
ton and Ralph Barrow to the landing at which they 
proposed taking the boat, he brought with him two 
letters, written hy Mr. Bolton in the little post-office at 
their point of embarkation, — the one to Dr. Reynard, 
the other to Miss Lombard ; and, having been ordered 
by that gentleman to take them both across the lake 
and deliver them into Miss Lombard’s hands the very 
first thing in the morning, he had done so, and had 
given them into Bertha’s hands just as she had come 
out of Miss Chevreul’s room, leaving Dr. Reynard 
closeted with her. Mr. Bolton’s letter to herself was 
as follows : 


BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 


341 


Miss Berthy Lombard. 

“ Respected Miss, — As I reached this point of our 
destination, I found awaiting for me here a letter, 
which, though it contains most melancholy information 
for me, may sarve to act as a blind for them as needs 
blinds, and I inclose it, to be used as you may see 
most proper. As 1 kin get home almost as soon by 
the way of Mobile from the city, this melancholy news 
will make no difference in my seeing a young man that 
we are both much interested in safe into the hands of 
his friend, who shall be nameless. 

“Your most obedient servant, honored miss, 

“ Jack Bolton, 

“ SupH of Affairs on the Tanglewood Plantation.^^ 

So it was Bertha’s self who placed the letter of “ the 
Superintendent of Affairs on the Tanglewood Planta- 
tion” upon her uncle’s plate, after having burned her 
own communication from her ally. 

“ Damn it I” thought Dr. Reynard, “ I must be on 
the wrong scent then. She would not send the boy off 
to Bolton’s mother, and then give me such a clue as 
that letter contains for following him straight up. He 
has not gone with Bolton, — that’s plain ; so where in 
the devil has he gone ? She would have to be a more 
hardened little hypocrite than I take her for, if she 
could be suddenly confronted with a note from an ac- 
complice and keep that calm a face.” So the Bolton- 
theory was consigned to oblivion. 

After breakfast. Dr. Reynard proceeded to examine 
the two boys, Gus and Hiram. On second thoughts, 
Bertha, dreading for the two helpless slaves the vio- 
lent wrath which had fallen harmlessly upon her own 
bold shoulders, had given them her orders to answer 
truthfully and fully any questions Dr. Reynard might 
put to them. “ For,” she had reasoned, “ they know so 
little, and what they do know will not jeopardize 
Ralph’s safety in any degree; therefore he is welcome 
to any information he can extract from them. ” So Dr. 


342 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


Reynard, ringing his library-bell immediately after the 
morning meal, seated himself in his office-chair, and, 
summoning the two negroes into his presence, he pre- 
pared to overawe them by the most imposing display 
of magisterial dignity. 

“ Gus,’^ he began, addressing the elder of the two 
boys, “ do you know what an oath implies 

“Yes, master,” said Gus, promptly. “It means 
puttin’ cussin’ words together.” 

“ It means, sir,” said Dr. Reynard, “ that you are 
to swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth.” 

“ Yes, mars’ doctor, I thought it meaned swarin’. ” 

“ Now, then, I wish you two to answer my ques- 
tions truthfully, and if you fail to do so, by G — d I’ll 
make you both suffer for it!” 

“Yes, master,” was the dual response. 

“Where did your Miss Bertha go yesterday, after 
dinner ?” 

“’Cross de lake, master,” was the reply, which 
somewhat surprised Dr. Reynard by its prompt de- 
livery. 

“ Who was with her ?” 

“ Mars’ Ralphy,” said Gus, in the most witness-like 
manner. 

“An’ his trunk, nigger,” interpolated Hiram, who 
had no notion of playing silent partner in so interest- 
ing an examination. 

“What did they do when they reached the other side ?” 

“ They got out of the skiff, master,” was the brilliant 
and highly-instructive reply. 

“ Did you see any horses anywhere about ?” 

“Yes, sir, I seed a par of them.” 

“ A pair I” exclaimed Dr. Reynard, brightening at 
the prospect of gaining some scrap of information, 
however small. “ What were the horses there for, do 
you know ?” 

“ They was thar to haul a carriage, seemed like, 
master, for dey was harnessed to one,” said Hiram, 


BAFFLED BY THE TRUTH. 


343 


who was “playing stupid” for his own and Gus’s pri- 
vate entertainment. 

“ A carriage !” exclaimed their examiner, puzzled 
again. Then he reflected that it was highly improbable 
that Mr. Bolton should start to see his mother, who 
lived in Georgia, in a carriage ; and as Dr. Reynard 
was in total ignorance that there was such a thing in 
existence as a lumbering old family-coach, which had 
been mouldering in the dusty obscurity of the tumble- 
down stable at Tanglewood for more years than he 
had known the place, this piece of information, so far 
from elucidating matters, only deepened the mystery. 

“ Did you know the horses, either one of you ?” 

“ No, sir,” was the strictly-truthful reply. 

“ Did you know the carriage ?” 

“ No, sir,” again. 

“ Did you know the driver ?” 

“ Warn’t no driver thar, s’ long as we was on that 
side.” 

“ How long were you over there ?” 

“ ’Bout fifteen or twenty minutes, master.” 

“ What did your Mars’ Ralph do after he got out of 
the skiff?” 

“ Don’ know, master. After Miss Berthy dun tole 
him good-by, he jes’ turned ’round and walked t’ward 
the carriage, an’ we lef him walkin’.” 

“Is that all that either one of you know?” 

“Yes, master, ’fore God I” was the solemn reply. 

“ Did neither of you see a strange gentleman any- 
where about ?” 

“No, master, ’fore God we didn’t!” which was also 
strictly true, for Mr. Bolton did not come under the 
category of “ gentleman” with the negroes, nor was he 
“ strange.” 

The straightforward, evident truthfulness of the an- 
swers given by these two witnesses, from whose ex- 
amination Dr. Reynard had hoped so much, served the 
purpose of mystifying him better than the most elabo- 
rately-concocted string of falsehoods. “ Their replies 


344 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


were so simple and direct that they could not be the 
truth,” was the sophistical conclusion of the completely- 
baffled man. Was it probable that Bertha would tell 
him the truth to a certain point herself, and allow her 
two tools to do the same, if she really desired to mis- 
lead him? No; therefore the whole story about the 
lake, and the horses, and the carriage was a concocted 
lie, and he was still utterly at fault as to how Ralph 
had left Aland. 

Dr. Reynard was so unfamiliar with the guise of 
truth that it had passed from before his perverted 
vision totally unrecognized. He dismissed the two 
negroes, and was compelled to acknowledged himself 
further than ever from having obtained the desired clue. 


CHAPTER LXY. 

REMASKING. 

“ May I ask what explanation you have concluded 
to give aunt of my cousin’s absence?” asked Bertha 
Lombard, coldly, of Dr. Reynard, a few days before 
the return of that lady. 

“ What explanation 1 propose giving !” exclaimed 
the gentleman addressed. 

“ Yes,” replied the young girl, coolly ; “ for if the 
explanation is left to me, I should tell her something 
like the truth, and the truth might involve some dis- 
agreeable discoveries ; and as I know there is nothing 
you so much dread as a public scandal, I feel pretty 
sure that by the time my aunt shall have arrived you 
will have invented some plausible story that will be 
all-satisfactory to so careless a mother.” 

Dr. Reynard glanced at her in helpless rage : “ I’ll 
be cursed, miss, if that is not devilish cool ! I am to 


REMASKING. 


345 


invent a fable to protect your nefarious schemes from 
discovery !” 

“Not at all,” was the contemptuous rejoinder, — “ to 
protect your own prior nefarious schemes. Remember, 
I did not plot, I only counterplotted. For your sake,” 
she added, “ I shall have to be accessory to another 
lie. I wished to know what you proposed telliug her, 
so that there should be no clashing of our statements.” 

“ I intend to tell her — d — n it ! — that an old school- 
mate of Ralph’s came up the river with me, and pleaded 
so hard to have the boy pay him a visit, that I con- 
sented, hoping the change might benefit him.” 

“ Quite neat,” said Miss Lombard, contemptuously. 
And then she passed out from his presence, and going 
into the darkened chamber of the lonely Frenchwoman, 
who was still lying there lingering on the verge of the 
grave, she laid aside the haughty and proudly scornful 
demeanor she had worn in the presence of the man 
whom she had unmasked, and became the tender, gen- 
tle, loving-hearted nurse, whose voice was as soft as 
the cooing of a dove whenever she addressed the bruised 
reed which John Reynard’s brutal hand had broken. 

And the man she had left behind her sat over his 
study-fire, consumed with black, soul-scorching hatred 
of this heroic girl, whom he so ardently longed to 
crush, but could not without creating a scandal (1). 
Whom he would so dearly have liked to drive from 
under the roof of Aland with scorn and contumely, but 
dared not for fear of the world (!). His own preserva- 
tion was Bertha’s safeguard. To punish her would 
be to expose himself. Therefore she was safe. 

The efforts which he was still industriously but se- 
cretly making to discover Ralph’s whereabouts, led, in 
every instance, to nothing. He had turned his back 
upon the one true clue which had been placed in his 
hands, and was vainly seeking for others which did 
not exist. Truth had come to him, but so unfamiliar 
was her appearance, that he had laughed her to scorn, 
and flouted her as a liar. But two things remained 
30 


346 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


for him to try, and if the}^ failed he would have to 
succumb to the master machinations of his girlish op- 
ponent. The Bolton theory seemed to him now the 
most improbable of any that had, as yet, suggested 
themselves to him. To satisfy himself, however, he 
wrote to the postmaster of the little inland Georgian 
village from which Miss Martha Bolton’s letter pur- 
ported to have come, and requested him to make in- 
quiries for him relative to one Jack Bolton, to discover 
if the gentleman was really in that place, and if he had 
been accompanied thither by any one, or had come 
alone. A sufficiently handsome reward was offered 
for the desired information, to stimulate the postmaster 
to make it as full and satisfactory as possible. No 
answer could be expected to this communication for a 
fortnight, so Dr. Reynard was doing that hardest of 
all things to do, — trying to wait patiently during the 
most agonizing period of suspense. 

His other theory was, that Mr. Paul Winchester, 
whose possible discovery of Ralph’s melancholy con- 
dition had frequently haunted the guilty man with a 
vague dread, had seen lit to come down and pay a visit 
to his deceased cousin’s family, and had presumed on 
his relationship and the old-time affection subsisting 
between himself and the boy’s dead father, and had 
taken him home with him. This idea had been 
strengthened by a guilty flush which suffused Bertha 
Lombard’s face when he had purposely mentioned Mr. 
Winchester’s name, to discover, if possible, whether 
he might not have been the mysterious guest who 
had visited Aland, and had proven so powerful a foe to 
himself and so efficient an ally to Bertha. But Ber- 
tha’s flush was because of the letter she had found; 
for she did not like to be made to think of the many 
little underhand things which, for Ralph’s sake, she 
was still compelled to conceal. She loathed deceit 
and concealment, and she loathed the man who had 
compelled her to practice them ; but the crimson token 
of her soul’s indignation was presumed by Dr. Rey- 


REMASKING. 


34t 

nard to be a signal of alarm at his near approach to 
the discovery of her precious secret. 

The following up of this clue, however, Dr. Rey- 
nard was compelled to postpone until he should have 
received an answer from the postmaster of the Georgia 
village. How he followed it, and with what success, 
we shall presently see. 

* sf: 

It was near dinner-time, when Bertha, who was sit- 
ting by Rosine’s bedside, reading by her request from 
the Bible, heard the carriage draw up in front of the 
house ; heard the smooth, oily voice of Dr. Reynard 
greeting his wife and daughter home, and then heard 
them all pass through the intervening hall into the 
family sitting-room beyond. She purposely avoided 
going to meet the returned travelers until Dr. Reynard 
should have had ample time to explain Ralph’s absence. 
When she did go in, it was his hated voice that fell 
first upon her ear : 

“And, ah ! my dear Agnes,” it said, “ I have not 
yet told you how dangerously ill I found our poor Miss 
Chevreul on my return. I think it was most fortunate 
that I arrived just when I did, for otherwise it is most 
probable her attack would have terminated fatally. 
Our dear Bertha here has been a real angel of mercy 
to the unfortunate young woman.” 

Bertha had in the mean time been exchanging her 
greetings with her aunt, her cousin, and Mr. James 
Reynard. 

“Dr. Reynard tells me, Bertha,” said Mrs. Rey- 
nard, after having kindly allowed her niece to kiss her 
upon the cheek, “that Ralph has improved so much 
that he has allowed him to accompany a young friend 
of his home.” 

“He is very much better,” said Bertha; “you will 
be surprised at the change in him.” 

“I am certainly very glad to hear it,” was the ardent 
response of Ralph Barrow’s tender-hearted mother. 

“ You are not looking so well, Bertha, as when we 


348 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


left,” said Helen. “You should have gone with us; 
I am sure you would have enjoyed yourself immensely, 
and you might have had Mr. Reynard all to yourself. 
I should not have minded in the least.” And she glanced 
saucily at the young man, whose chance of winning 
the promised reward for his treachery toward Ralph 
Barrow had been threatened with total annihilation by 
Mr, Horace Rockbridge. 

“ Even our blooming Bertha’s roses are not proof 
against the close atmosphere of a sick-room,” — it was 
Dr. Reynard who answered for her, — “ and we must 
not allow her to do all the nursing by herself any 
longer, my dears.” This benevolent address was in- 
tended for his wife and stepdaughter jointly. 

“I am sure,” replied Mrs. Reynard, coldly, “I shall 
take great pleasure in relieving Bertha, at intervals, 
during the day. It is very unfortunate that Miss 
Chevreul should be so ill just at this juncture, for 
Helhne anticipated making the house quite gay, during 
the interval that we shall be compelled to remain here, 
before leaving for the summer.” 

From which you will perceive that the home which 
Otis Barrow had fixed up with such fond pride for the 
penniless Agnes Snowe was used merely as a stopping- 
place during intervals between the “fashionable sea- 
sons” by Mrs. John Reynard. 

“Mamma,” said Helen, pouting, “do you mean to 
say that, because Bertha’s teacher is sick in the house, 
I have to give up my company and parties? Indeed, 
I shall do no such thing. Miss Chevreul’s bedroom 
is remote enough from this part of the house ; and so 
that she is well nursed and well cared for, I do not 
see that she has any right to ask anything further.” 

“ She will not ask that much very long, Helen,” 
said Bertha, in a sad, grave voice ; “ so try and be pa- 
tient for a little while, cousin.” And she rose up to go 
away from these people, with whom she had not one 
feeling in common, to resume her post by the stranger 
who lay dying within their inhospitable gates. John 


REMASKINO. 


349 


Reynard shivered as the girPs sadly-prophetic voice 
fell upon his ears, for he knew full well that she spoke 
truth. 

“ Is she so ill as all that asked Mrs. Reynard of 
her husband. 

She has but a few days to live, — be kind to her, 
wife.” Then he, too, got up and went out on some 
pretext, for he winced at being questioned about his 
victim. 

“ Mamma,” cried Helen, hysterically, “ I feel as if 
we had come into a vault ! Bertha as solemn as a 
graveyard, papa looking like a sexton, and a dying 
woman in the house ! Oh, I shall die, 'if I have to stay 
here, — I know I shall I” And the spoiled pet of fortune 
fell to weeping in the most copious style, completely 
unnerved by the mere mention of the sorrow and gloom 
within whose shadow Bertha Lombard was patiently 
and unselfishly pursuing her way, taking no thought of 
herself, but tenderly trying to lead a wandering soul 
home to its God before it was too late. 

♦ * 3tC SK * * * 

One more weary week dragged its slow length 
along. One more week of patient, voiceless suffering, 
and the spirit of Rosine Chevreul sought a happier 
sphere. 

Poor, weak vessel ! — weak to resist, weak to do ! 
Strong only to suffer and to love ! May the pure angels 
on high deal more kindly by thee than did thy fellow- 
sinners I 


30 * 


350 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

MR. BOLTON IN THE WITNESS-BOX. 

“Respected Sir, — Your letter of inquiries respect- 
ing one Mr. Jack Bolton reached this point in due 
course of time, and I hasten to give you the informa- 
tion you desire, hoping that you will be equally prompt 
in remitting the sum offered for the said information. 

“ Mr. Jack Bolton, sir, arrived at this point nigh on 
to some two weeks ago. He come intirely alone, and 
was sent for because his aged mother was laying in a 
very critercal condition. The old lady breathed her 
last yesterday, and the buryin’ is going on at this 
present writing. I am informed by my brother’s wife’s 
mother, whose sister’s son’s wife is very intimate 
with Miss Marthy Bolton, the daughter of the late de- 
ceased, and sister of the Mr. Jack Bolton which you 
wish to hear about, that Mr. Jack Bolton expects to 
return to Louisiany immediate, and take his sister, who 
is alone in the world now, poor creature ! since her 
late lamented parent died, to keep house for him. For 
my part I think this is nothing more than a act which- 
common humanity demands. 

“ Hoping, respected sir, that you will find my in- 
formation full enough and satisfactory enough, I remain 
your obedient servant, 

“ Jeremiah Dalton, 

“ Postmaster of Plankton, OeorgiaP 

This effusive document was placed in Dr. Reynard’s 
hands on one morning, and the next morning he re- 
ceived a visit in person from the returned Mr. Jack 
Bolton, who came over to report himself to his em- 
ployer the day after he reached home. 


MR. BOLTON IN THE WITNESS-BOX. 351 

Dr. Keynard’s confidence in his own astuteness had 
been sadly shaken since he had been so cleverly outwit- 
ted by a girl ; and after he had read Mr. Dalton’s agon- 
izingly prolix statement of the private affairs of the 
Bolton family, he was forced to acknowledge that he 
could not decide whether it was artlessly or artfully 
stupid. He had also lost faith in cross-examinations, to 
a great degree, since he had examined two ignorant 
negroes at great length and yet with no result. Never- 
theless, to cross-examine Mr. Bolton was the one chance 
left of satisfying himself that he really had nothing 
whatever to do with Ralph’s flight from Aland. To ask 
Mr. Bolton into his study, to order in a decanter of 
his second-best whisky, and to press the manager affa- 
bly to help himself freely, were the preliminary forms 
which Dr. Reynard considered necessary to his exami- 
nation of this last, but most important witness in the 
case of Lombard vs. Reynard. 

“ Your summons home was quite an unexpected 
one, Mr. Bolton ?” began the interlocutor. 

“ Quite an unexpected one. Dr. Reynard,” replied 
the witness, who belonged to the vexatiously non-com- 
mittal class. 

“ Of rather a melancholy nature, as I understood by 
your note ?” 

“ Rather melancholy, thank you, sir.” 

“ I hope you left your respected mother much better, 
Mr. Bolton,” affably. 

‘‘ Much better, thank you, sir, seeing as the old lady 
had a through ticket to Paradise.” 

“ Ah ! from which I infer, Mr. Bolton, that your re- 
spected mother’s illness terminated fatally ?” 

‘‘ I ’spose folks of this world would call it fatal, sir, 
but seems like when one is mellow with years and with 
religion, as was my old mother, she’s just ripe for 
heaven, and therefore will be better off thar than here. 
She went off in a quinsy, sir.” 

This explanatorily. What with Mr. Bolton’s filial 
prolixity and Mr. Dalton’s verbosity. Dr. Reynard was 


352 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


iu a fair way to have an ample stock of information 
relative to the family affairs of Jack Bolton, Superin- 
tendent of Affairs on the Tanglewood Plantation. 

“ I believe you left the day previous to the one in 
which I received your note, Mr. Bolton 

‘‘ The day previous, sir; that’s correct.” 

The same day on which my son left Aland on a 
visit 

“ Glad to see Mr. Ralph’s got better enough to leave 
home,” was the reply to this remark. ^ 

“ Much better, thank you. You would hardly know 
him if you should see him.” 

“Yes, he is powerfully altered,” was Mr. Bolton’s 
unexpected reply. 

“ You have seen him lately, then ?” said Dr. Reynard, 
striving in vain to suppress every indication of excite- 
ment. 

“ Yes, sir; me and him went down the river on the 
same boat.” 

“What!” exclaimed John Reynard, in a voice of un- 
mitigated astonishment. 

“I said,” repeated Mr. Bolton, in a stolidly com- 
posed voice, “that me and him went down the river 
on the same boat ; is there anything particularly sur- 
prising in that, Mr. Reynard ?” 

“ Not at all, not at all, my friend,” said John Rey- 
nard, who had almost forgotten that his role was to 
acquiesce in his stepson’s absence, and show no sign 
of discomfiture thereat. 

“You will not think strangely, my friend, of my 
asking you a few questions about the gentleman my 
stepson has left home with ; for, of course, in his pres- 
ent condition, he is an object of considerable solicitude 
to me, and I wish to satisfy myself that he is with 
proper companions. I think it would have been more 
judicious of my sweet niece if she had tried to pre- 
vail upon her cousin to postpone this visit until my 
return.” 

“Perhaps, sir,” replied Mr. Bolton, in a peculiar sort 


MR. BOLTON IN THE WITNESS-BOX. 353 

of voice, for Dr. Reynard had paused for a reply, and 
he had to give him one. 

“ Mrs. Reynard, in fact, seemed so uneasy when she 
came home and found Ralph gone, that, in order to 
pacify her, I had to postdate his departure slightly, 
and tell her that he left with my consent after my re- 
turn. You know we have to tell these little white lies 
once in awhile, Mr. Bolton, to save the dear creatures 
unnecessary suffering,” said the master of Aland, grow- 
ing confidentially affable toward his niece’s manager. 

“Yes, sir, I suppose so, sir,” replied' stolid Jack 
Bolton, whose role was to answer questions only, and 
not volunteer opinions. 

“ I believe my son crossed over to your side of Silver 
Lake to go to the river ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I see him and Miss Berthy come across 
that way.” 

“ Do you know how he went to the boat, Mr. Bolton ?” 

“In a carriage and par, Mr. Reynard, I believe.” 

“Do you know whose carriage it was, Mr. Bolton ?” 

“I do not, sir.” 

Which was strictly true, reasoned Mr. Bolton, for 
in the twenty years he had been on the place that old 
carriage had been kept locked up as a state affair, and 
a smaller and lighter vehicle was used by Mrs. Lom- 
bard on the rare occasions of her leaving home. So 
how could he know to which member of the Snowe 
family that heirloom had descended? 

“Was there any one in the carriage with Ralph, 
Mr. Bolton?” 

“No one as I see, sir,” said Mr. Bolton, in a straight- 
forward, honest way. 

Strictly true again, for Mr. Bolton had not so far 
forgotten his station in life as to take a seat in the 
same vehicle with the heir of Aland ; so, after having 
seen Ralph safely established in the old family-chariot, 
he had closed the door upon him, and, mounting his 
horse, had followed in the wake of the carriage. 

Dr. Reynard was growing sadly puzzled again. The 


354 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


man’s answers were so prompt and straightforward 
that they compelled confidence. And yet what informa- 
tion was he gaining from them ? 

“You say you went down with my son on the same 
boat, Mr. Bolton?” 

“The same boat, sir,” was the prompt reply. 

“ Did Ralph seem to be alone on the boat, also, Mr. 
Bolton?” 

“No, sir; he appeared to have a friend with him, as 
stuck purty close to him all the time, and seemed to 
take very good care of him, sir.” 

“Ah,” said Dr. Reynard, brightening once more, 
“that is the gentleman with whom he is staying at 
present, I presume. Did you hear his name, Mr. Bol- 
ton?” 

“John Rogers, I believe, was his name, sir,” replied 
Mr. John Rogers Bolton. 

“Rogers! — Rogers!” repeated Dr. Reynard, mus- 
ingly. “I do not think I know the gentleman. A — 
Mr. Bolton, — a — would it be too much trouble to you 
to describe this Mr. Rogers personally?” 

“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Bolton, with charming self- 
depreciation, “I didn’t think much of his looks, sir, 
though you know he might have been a number one 
gentleman at heart. Dr. Reynard, for all that.” 

“Certainly, certainly,” acquiesced Dr. Reynard. 

“Well, sir, as well as I can recollect, Mr. Ralph’s 
friend was about my size; a great red face, set on top 
of a most awful thick neck; bushy beard; tolerable 
decentish pair of eyes, and was dressed like a gentle- 
man, which means he had on a black coat and pants 
and a slick-looking hat.” 

There, Jack Bolton, you’ve drawn a very neat pic- 
ture of yourself and your Sunday bests, and he’s on- 
complimentary enough not to recognize the picture, 
was Mr. Bolton’s mental addenda. 

Dr. Reynard had assumed his musing aspect once 
more. This graphic description of Mr. John Rogers 
was not elaborate enough for a make-up, and yet it an- 


MR. BOLTON IN THE WITNESS-BOX. 355 


swered to the description of no one he had ever seen, 
for it never once occurred to him that any man could 
give such a nonchalant description of himself. 

“I am afraid I am tiring you, my friend; but one 
more question, if you please. First, however, fill your- 
self another glass.” And the decanter was pushed 
toward Mr. Bolton. 

“Thank you, sir, no more for me. Jack Bolton al- 
ways knows when he’s had enough, sir. But your ques- 
tion, — ask on, sir. I am agreeable to answer as many 
more as you see fitten to ask me.” 

“Do you know where Ralph and his friend went 
when they reached New Orleans ?” 

“ And now, doctor, you’re growin’ too hard for me. 
Is it likely that a man which has been sent for to 
see a old mother die should take much time to find 
out other folks’ business ? I’m a roughish man. Dr. 
Reynard, but I’ve got a heart in my body for all that, 
sir.” 

“ Certainly, certainly, Mr. Bolton,” was the reply, in 
a voice of irritation. “ I thought you might have 
heard Ralph mention, casually, where this Mr. Rogers 
lived.” 

“No, sir,” said Mr. Bolton, with a twinkling eye, 
“ I never heard where Mr. Rogers lived. I know that 
Mr. Ralph and his friend got into a hack and went 
drivin’ like mad, as all them hacks does, you know, 
away into that big haystack of a town, and I’d as soon 
agone to hunt for a needle thar as for him after he 
once got out of my sight.” 

Dr. Reynard had come to the end of his questions, 
and what had he learned ? 

Nothing, — literally nothing. 

Once more was he dazzled and blinded by the bright 
light of truth. 

Was it at all likely that if this man was Bertha’s 
accomplice, he would answer any questions truthfully? 
Was it at all likely that if Ralph really had gone to New 
Orleans, and Mr. Bolton had assisted in conveying him 


356 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


there, that he would have confessed to going down on 
the same boat with h‘ni ? No ; either Mr. Bolton knew 
nothing of the boy’s destination, and his meeting with 
him was purely accidental, or else he knew all about 
it, and, of course, had not taken him to New Orleans, 
else he would not have given any clue by which to 
find him. In either case, nothing was to be gained by 
questioning him any further. For, if he was innocent 
and ignorant of the whole affair, any more questioning 
on Dr. Reynard’s part would look suspicious. Whereas, 
if he knew all about it, he would merely laugh at the 
success of his ruse if Dr. Reynard should adopt the 
New Orleans theory and go there to look for the miss- 
ing young man. No, whatever else he would do, was 
Dr. Reynard’s mental conclusion, he would not waste 
time by going to New Orleans. 

“ 1 suppose, sir,” said Mr. Bolton, rising as he spoke, 
“ I’ve answered about all the questions you’ve got to 
ask me, haven’t I ?” 

“ Thank you, yes, Mr. Bolton, I believe I will trouble 
you no further. I am exceedingly obliged to you for 
the patience you have displayed in answering those 
that a father’s natural anxiety compelled me to ask.” 

“ All right, sir ; no trouble. I hope them that I’ve 
answered may do you some good,” with which signifi- 
cant reply he made his best company-bow and left the 
study. 

Bertha Lombard had heard of his arrival ; and, as 
he-closed the library-door behind him, she fluttered out 
of an opposite one, looking pale and worn with her 
recent sorrowful watching, but nervously excited as 
she advanced toward Mr. Bolton. “You have some- 
thing for me, I know; give it to me, quick!” 

A little sealed note was dropped into her extended 
hand, and she hastily glided back through the door of 
her chamber, and Mr. Bolton stalked heavily out 
through the entrance-door With trembling fingers, 
Bertha tore off the envelope which concealed from her 
sight these few words : 


MR. BOLTON IN TEE WITNESS-BOX. 357 


“ Brave girl I brave girl ! You have done right. I 
promise you shall never regret what you have done. 
Be patient, and have faith in me and in the good God.’^ 

“Ah, I will, I will !” And, overcome with emotion, 
Bertha bowed her head over this little messenger of 
Hope, and prayed the good God to increase her faith 
and to enable her to be very, very patient. 

“Agnes, my dear,” said Dr. Reynard that night as 
the family sat grouped around the drawing-room fire, 
“ what has become of the Winchesters?” 

Mrs. Reynard looked up in unmitigated astonish- 
ment : “ Why, what in the world could have set you to 
thinking of the Winchesters, Dr. Reynard ?” 

“ Well, my dear, the connecting links of a long train 
of thoughts are sometimes rather hard to discover. Let 
me think now, if I can state correctly, how I did come 
to think of your first husband’s best friend at this par- 
ticular juncture. Ah,” after a momentary pause, “I 
was thinking, my dear, that we must make our de- 
parture for the summer a little earlier this year than 
usual, for my dear little stepdaughter is withering in 
the gloom of this house. It has been so saddened 
lately.” 

“Oh, papa!” interrupted Helen, briskly, “you are 
too good to be always thinking of me. Since Mr. 
Rockbridge has arrived, I assure you I find Silver 
Lake quite endurable. He’s to be back to-morrow, 
you know ; and when he is in the house, I really for- 
get that poor Mademoiselle Chevreul ever existed,” 
was the frankly heartless acknowledgment. 

“ Quite natural, my dear, — quite so ; but until Mr. 
Rockbridge is your accepted suitor, my little one, it 
will be hardly the thing for him to be domesticated 
here.” 

“No,” said Helen, pouting; “and unless he makes 
up his mind to make his declaration in full family con- 
clave, I don’t see how he can ever become an accepted 
suitor, for I’m treated just like a baby in this house ; 

31 


358 


DEAD 3fEN’S SHOES. 


everybody, from you, papa, down to him,’’ pointing 
contemptuously at Mr. James Reynard, “seems to think 
it necessary to watch me like so many hawks.” 

“Mr. Rockbridge shall certainly have his opportu- 
nity as soon as he makes known to me, my dear, that 
he desires one,” was the significant reply of Dr. Rey- 
nard, which sent the spoiled girl from the room with 
sparkling eyes and crimson cheeks. 

“ Poor little one,” said her stepfather, tenderly, “ I 
am afraid I have angered her. Rut to return to the 
Winchesters. Whatever Helen may say to the con- 
trary, I think there is nothing so injurious for a young 
and bright nature like hers, as to Le immured in a silent 
and gloomy house. On the other hand, the constant 
whirl and excitement which is kept up at a watering- 
place ages a girl most rapidly. Thus, I found myself 
wishing, my dear, that I had some personal friend 
living North with whom we could leave Helen for a 
month or two. Failing to find any among my own 
friends, I fell to thinking of yours, my dear Agnes, 
and, of course, that naturally suggested the Win- 
chesters.” 

“ They were great friends of Mr. Barrow’s, — not of 
mine,” said Mrs. Reynard, coldly; “but I received 
several letters after Mr. Barrow’s death, making in- 
quiry about the children, and begging me to let them 
spend a portion of the time with them.” 

“ Exactly,” said Dr. Reynard. “ By the way, my 
dear, what sort of a looking man was this Mr. Win- 
chester ?” 

A soft blush actually mounted into Agnes Reynard’s 
marble cheek as she was thus called upon suddenly 
and unexpectedly to describe the one only human being 
she had ever ardently loved, and her answer was simply 
a confused, “ I don’t know, — why do you wish to hear. 
Dr. Reynard ?” 

“Was he a man about Mr. Bolton’s size?” asked 
Dr. Reynard, by way of assisting her memory. 

“ Mr. Bolton’s size I” exclaimed Agues, indignantly. 


MR. BOLTON IN THE WITNESS-BOX. 359 

“That great; burly giant! No, he is quite tall, but ele- 
gant in shape, and graceful in carriage.” 

“TFas, my love, — was,'*' said Dr. Reynard, “ for you 
know a good many years have passed since vou last 
saw him.” 

“ Yes,” said Agnes, actually sighing, “that was a 
long, long time ago ; there’s no knowing how he looks 
now.” 

“ Did he have a very red face and a very thick neck ?” 
asked her husband, quoting from memory once more. 

“ Time, it is true, may have coarsened his features,” 
said Mrs. Reynard, “but it could hardly have con- 
verted a slender neck, that was almost womanish in its 
whiteness, into a very thick one.” 

“ Would you describe his eyes as decentish ?” asked 
Dr. Reynard, conscientiously going on with Mr. Bol- 
ton’s description of Mr. John Rogers. 

“Decentish!” excla’med Mrs. Reynard in disgust. 
“ Where could you ha\ o found such a word ? Mr. Win- 
chester’s eyes were the finest feature in his face ; 
they were remarkable eyes ; large, intelligent, crys- 
talline ” 

“ Why, my dear Agnes,” Interrupted her husband, 
laughing, “ how enthusiastic you grow ! Mr. Win- 
chester then is, or rather was, a very handsome man?” 

“ The very handsomest I ever saw,” said Agnes. 
Then her enthusiasm was all exhausted, and she 
became once more her own cold, haughty self. 

Clearly 7iot Mr. John Rogers, thought Dr. Reynard, 
who had been trying to establish some point of resem- 
blance between Ralph’s mysterious friend and Mr. Paul 
Winchester. But Mrs. Reynard’s description of her 
husband’s old friend clearly established the fact that no 
such resemblance existed. 

Nothing more was said that night on the subject of 
the Winchesters, but this casual mention of the name 
had stirred up memories which were bitter-sweet to 
the haughty mistress of Aland. 


360 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES 


CHAPTER XLYII. 

DR. REYNARD PLAYS HIS LAST CARD. 

The longer Dr. Reynard pondered over the appa- 
rently honest recitals of the two boatmen who had 
aided in the escape of his victim, and Mr. Bolton’s 
coincident statement, the more firmly was he convinced 
that the whole story was a neat fabrication of his fair 
adversary’s, and was intended to send him to New 
Orleans on a vain search, in the exactly opposite direc- 
tion from where Ralph Barrow really was. New Orleans 
was south. Consequently, Ralph was north. North 
meant Mr. Winchester. Mr. John Rogers meant 
nothing. So, to manufacture some plausible excuse 
for invading Mr. Winchester’s domain, was the next 
point to be gained. 

Hope sprang eternal in John Reynard’s evil heart. 
It was possible for him to get Ralph Barrow once more 
into his clutches, if he could only come in contact with 
him, before he was completely restored ; for, only once 
let him be seen in one of those mad rages, which could 
be so easily produced by a scientific practitioner, and 
Dr. Reynard could get the certificates of any number 
of medical men that the young man was really mad 
and must be returned at once to the keeping of his legal 
guardian. Therefore, to find him, and find him at 
once, was matter of most vital importance. 

No more time must be wasted in trying to extract 
information from Bertha Lombard, whose profound 
skill in the black arts of lying and deceiving sent a 
thrill of horrified astonishment through John Reynard’s 
righteous soul, nor from the three tools whom she had 
drilled to such a scientific degree of artful honesty. 


DR. REYNARD PLAYS HIS LAST CARD. 361 


A coDjugal tete-(X-tete in Mrs. Reynard’s dressing- 
room, on the morning following the conversation related 
in the last chapter, paved the way for putting the Win- 
chester hypothesis to the test. 

‘‘Agnes, my dear, have you noticed how thin and 
worn your niece is looking lately?” was the truly be- 
nevolent leading interrogatory of Bertha’s foe. 

“She does look hoi:ribly thin and sallow,” was Mrs. 
Reynard’s indifferent reply. “ I suppose she is going 
to be one of those beauties that shrivel up at the 
slightest indisposition.” And she turned with a com- 
placent air toward her mirror, to continue the arrange- 
ment of her hair, casting upon the handsome image 
reflected therein, a look which said plainly that Mrs. 
John Reynard could tell you of a beauty who did not 
shrivel up at the slightest indisposition. 

“ But, really, my dear, I think Bertha has been 
allowed to sacrifice herself to others a sufficiently long 
time, and it is our duty to take her away for a change 
this summer.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Reynard, snappishly, “ I am sure 
I have not refused to let her go anywheres, have I ?” 
For the idea of taking Becky’s beautiful daughter into 
society, where she was sure to eclipse her own daugh- 
ter, was exceedingly distasteful to the selfish woman. 

“No, Agnes, you have not exactly refused, but you 
have certainly shown no great anxiety to have her go, 
and this time we must insist. Her life has been a very 
sad one, poor child ! and she has been immured in this 
one spot so long, that her beauty must needs be of no 
earthly sort if it could stand the test of such a life 
much longer.” 

Angelic creature, how admirably well he knew how 
to return good for evil ! 

“ She shall go with us this summer. There, now, for 
mercy’s sake, don’t say anything more about the girl I 
One would think I was a perfect ogress.” And Mrs. 
Reynard’s white brows were contracted in an angry 
frown. 


31 * 


362 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES 


“Not at all, my dear love, — not at all. I am sure 
your niece has been most kindly treated ever since she 
has been under your roof ; but you know the experi- 
enced eye of a physician can discover tokens of ill 
health that are invisible to more casual observers, and 
our niece really needs the change.” 

Mrs. Reynard preserved a sulky silence. 

“ I was about to observe, Agnes, my dear, that I 
hardly think our quiet little Bertha would be benefited 
by emerging suddenly from her almost nunlike retire- 
ment into the giddy whirl of a watering-place,” re- 
sumed this insatiable plotter. “ If we could only find 
some quiet, pleasant place for her to spend a month or 
two at first, and then bring her out in the gay season, 
she would enjoy it all the more.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Reynard, who felt somewhat re- 
lieved by this suggestion, “but where shall we find 
such a place ?” 

“ How about the Winchesters?” suggested her hus- 
band, carelessly. 

“ I know they would be very kind to her,” said Mrs. 
Reynard, “for Mr. Winchester had a very high opinion 
of poor old Becky, and they are just the kind of people 
to suit Bertha.” 

“How, my dear? — what sort of people are they?” 
asked John Reynard, who had his own private reasons 
for learning all he could about the Winchesters. 

“ Oh, goodish sort,” replied Mrs. Reynard, contemp- 
tuously. “ The wife is a Christian, I believe, and their 
one child, a son, was predestined for the pulpit before 
he was born. Mr. Winchester said something of the 
sort in his last letter to Mr. Barrow.” 

“Well, my dear,” said Dr. Reynard, “we will notify 
our niece at once, then, that we think a visit to the 

Winchesters would be of great benefit to her, shall 

we?” 

“I have no objections, I am sure,” said Mrs. Reynard. 
“T don’t suppose, though, she has a decent thing to 
wear.” 


DR. REYNARD PLAYS HIS LAST CARD. 363 


The next observation Dr. Reynard made was on a 
totally different subject : 

“ A — Agnes, my dear, — excuse me for mentioning it, 
— but I think you had better keep a pretty close sur- 
veillance of Helen and this young Rockbridge, until I 
can find out something a little more to his credit than 
anything I have yet learned.’’ 

“Why,” asked Mrs. Reynard, “what have you 
learned ?” 

“Nothing much, my dear, though, of course, re- 
garding him in the light of a possible suitor to our 
dear girl, I have made it my business to inquire of any 
one I thought likely to know him.” 

“Well, and what have you heard?” asked Agnes, 
once more, a little irritably, for handsome Horace 
Rockbridge, heir-apparent to one of the finest estates 
on Silver Lake, had found favor in her maternal eyes, 
and she had fully resolved to further his suit all in her 
power. 

“ Well, they do say, my dear, that the young man’s 
habits are so dissolute and his expenditures so enor- 
mous that old Mrs. Rockbridge has threatened recently 
to disinherit him; and they say, moreover, that this 
very visit he is paying her, and which our little Helen 
so innocently thinks is in consequence of her presence 
at Silver Lake, is the result of a very threatening letter 
the old lady wrote him, and he has come up to pacify 
her with promises of amendment.” 

He had said enough, for whatever else Mrs. Reynard 
might submit to, she would not let her only daughter 
marry a dissolute spendthrift. Her answer was so 
irate and her promise of surveillance was so promptly 
given that Dr. Reynard felt sure that Horace Rock- 
bridge must needs be an expert, indeed, to find one 
moment in which to declare his love and plead his suit. 

“I’ll watch him,” said the lady, in tones of heroic 
determination. And then she and her husband arose 
and left her dressing-room, in obedienqe to the sum- 
mons of the breakfast-bell. 


364 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


That morning, after breakfast, Dr. Reynard had an 
interview with his brother James in the library, whither 
they both resorted, immediately after the morning meal, 
to smoke their cigars. 

“James,” began the elder of the two Reynards, “ do 
you know I begin to think you are the d — est fool, sir, 
I ever saw ?” 

“ Thanks, John I” replied the other, coolly applying 
a match to his havana. “What particular sin of 
omission or commission has earned me that new ex- 
pression of the exalted estimation in which you are so 
kind as to hold me ?” 

“Hold your infernal nonsense, sir!” replied John 
Reynard, exasperated beyond measure at the puppyish 
aflectation of his brother. “ Do you know, sir, that 
Horace Rockbridge is to be here to-day ?” 

“ So Miss Barrow informed us last night.” 

“ Do you know, sir, that if you fail to marry my 
stepdaughter, you will have nothing but your own 
beggarly salary and your own beggarly brains to sup- 
port you for the rest of your life 

“ Yes, I know it,” retorted the younger man, grow- 
ing savage in his turn ; “but how in the devil can I 
make the girl say ‘Yes,’ instead of ‘ No ?’ ” 

“ Have you ever asked her, in so many words, to 
marry you ?” 

“ Only about forty dozen times,” replied the patient 
suitor, sarcastically. 

“ How did you seem to stand with her before this 
puppy Rockbridge came along ?” 

“ Middling fair,” was the commercial rejoinder. 

“Well, sir, your one chance at present is to make 
her believe some lie on Rockbridge that will make her 
offish with him until I can send her up on a visit to 
these Winchesters. From what her mother tells me of 
the family, she’ll be only too glad to jump into your 
arms after she’s spent a month or two with them,” he 
continued. 

“ Why, what’s the matter with the Winchesters ?” 


DR. REYNARD PLAYS HIS LAST CARD. 365 


asked Mr. Keynard, crossing his feet over the seat of a 
chair in front of him. 

“ Goodish people, it seems ; ajl members of the 
church ; mother a Christian, son studying for the 
ministry, etc.’’ 

“By George!” exclaimed James the little, “that’s 
the place for her. I may find it tough pulling against 
that handsome dog Bockbridge, but I bet Jim Reynard 
can hold his own against the best white cravat going. 
Send her on, John, and domesticate her one month 
with young Blackcoat, and I’ll promise you shall see 
her Mrs. James Reynard before the year is out.” 

But Dr. Reynard was gazing contemplatively in the 
fire, and did not answer this burst of eloquence in 
words. Suddenly he drew out his memorandum-book, 
tore a leaf out of it, and, writing something rapidly 
upon it with a lead-pencil, he handed it over to his 
brother, with the inquiry, “ Can you write in a finikin, 
womanish style?” 

“ Try me,” said James, as he held out his hand for 
the slip of paper, and perused its contents with a look 
of amusement twinkling in his little black eyes. 

“ I suppose you have on hand a supply of gilt-edge, 
sweet-smelling paper, haven’t you ? — fashionable pup- 
pies generally do have,” added Dr. Reynard. 

“Reams of it,” answered the fashionable puppy, 
amiably. 

“Well, copy that to look like a woman’s writing, 
and manage some way that she shall think Rockbridge 
dropped it.” 

“ You’re a trump, John !” cried Mr. Reynard, admir- 
ingly. And pocketing the piece of paper, he left the 
room to practice that running French hand to which 
the gentler sex is so partial. 

Mr. Rockbridge came that day, and, according to 
her promise, Mrs. Reynard stationed herself in the 
parlor to prevent any interchange of tender passages 
between the two young people. The young man was 
certainly very agreeable, and as he chatted gayly and 


366 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


wittily with first herself and then Helen, she found 
herself heartily wishing that the whispered rumors 
against his character might all turn out to be false, for 
she had seen no young man whom she would be so 
well pleased to have for a son-in-law. 

Now Horace Rockbridge had come to Aland that 
day with the full determination to ask Helen’s hand in 
marriage. He knew her only by what she had shown 
to the world. He saw in her a bright, piquant, charm- 
ing little creature, and he was genuinely and ardently 
in love with her. He wanted to marry her. He wanted 
to take her down to his stately old mother and give 
her this sunbeam to cheer her in her old age. He had 
come then that very day to ask for his little wife ; and 
as he saw no reason to be ashamed of what he was 
about, why should he not say what he came for right 
there, in presence of the young girl’s mother? Having 
come to this conclusion, the frank, open-hearted youth 
gave one preliminary little cough of nervous hesita- 
tion, and then spoke out right bravely, while a bright- 
red flush suffused his handsome face : “ Mrs. Rey- 
nard,” he said, “ I have come here to-day to ask you 
for your most precious possession.” He began in lover- 
like exaltation of the value of the possession he craved, 
you see. 

“ What is that, Mr. Rockbridge ?” answered the lady, 
feigning ignorance of his meaning. 

Why, I think Miss Barrow and I understand each 
other’s feelings pretty well by this time. She knows 

that I love her, and I hope that she loves me ” 

Here he paused and cast a look of questioning tender- 
ness toward Helen’s averted face. She turned and 
answered him by a bright little glance of acquiescence. 
“And so,” he resumed, “I want your consent to our 
marriage.” And then Horace Rockbridge’s laconic but 
honest wooing was accomplished. 

Mrs. Reynard was charmed into cordiality by this 
frank deference to herself, in the first place, and then 
he looked so bright and handsome and manly, that it 


DR. REYNARD PLAYS IITS, LAST CARD. SQ1 


was impossible, in his presence, to believe the slan- 
derous whispers afloat against him. Nevertheless a 
little caution, mingled with kindness, could do no 
harm, so she answered the young man with dignified 
reserve : 

“You must not think, my dear Mr. Rockbridge, that 
I do not fully appreciate the compliment you have just 
paid my little Helen if I answer you rather guardedly, 
and you must try to make allowances for a mother’s 
natural anxiety for her only daughter’s happiness. 
All that I know of you personally, certainly inclines 
me to say ‘ Yes’ to your suit ; but that knowledge is 
so very limited, my dear Mr. Rockbridge, that I am 
sure you will pardon a mother for wishing to inform 
herself thoroughly as to the morals and private char- 
acter of the man into whose hands she is about to in- 
trust what you yourself call ‘ her most precious pos- 
session.’ ” 

Horace Rockbridge was so conscious of a clean 
record, and was so confident that any and every in- 
quiry Mrs. Reynard could make must redound to his 
credit, that his countenance did not even change at 
the prospect of her instituting a search into his private 
character. 

“ If that is all, dear lady, that causes you to hesi- 
tate, I feel sure that before very long I may claim from 
you this much-coveted little treasure.” And, raising 
Helen’s small, jeweled hand to his mouth, he impressed 
a fervent kiss upon it. 

But Helen impulsively held up her mouth to his 
bearded lips, and murmuring, softly, “Ah, Horace 
dear, I do love you!” she kissed him before Mrs. 
Reynard could say one word to prevent. 

“Helene!” she exclaimed, growing rigidly severe, 
“ I have not sanctioned any engagement between you 
and Mr. Rockbridge yet, you will please remember.” 

“ Ah, yes, you have, mamma !” said Helen, blushing 
brightly, but glancing at her stately mother saucily ; 
“for you said that if you found that his private char- 


368 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


acter was as unexceptionable as his public one you 
would make no objection, and I know,'*' she added, with 
fond faith, “ that you will never, never find out any- 
thing against my Horace I” 

Horace Rockbridge thanked her for this tribute with 
a tender pressure of the little hand he still held im- 
prisoned, and then, after a few words of earnest thanks 
to Mrs. Reynard for the conditional assent she had 
given his suit, he went away confident of the future and 
buoyant with hope. 

As soon as he had left the house, Helen ran, girl- 
like, to shut herself up in her own chamber, and go over 
in memory every word, every look, every smile, that 
had gone toward making that morning the very hap- 
piest one of her whole life. 

Mr. Rockbridge had been gone hardly more than 
fifteen minutes, when Susanne entered her young mis- 
tress’s room holding in her hand a small envelope, 
which she silently extended toward Helen. 

“What is this?” asked Helen, wonderingly, as she 
glanced down on the rose-tinted envelope and saw that 
it was addressed to Mr. Horace Rockbridge, in a fine, 
delicate handwriting, that must certainly have belonged 
to a woman. 

“It is a letter, is it not, mademoiselle?” said Su- 
sanne, who had now been with Miss Barrow just long 
enough to have learned to speak English correctly and 
to hate, with real French fervor, the tyrannical little 
dame whom it was so impossible for any one who knew 
her intimately to love ; and the voice in which she said, 
“ Is it not, mademoiselle ?” was in sad and sulky con- 
trast to the cheerful alacrity which had formerly dis- 
tinguished the French maid’s manners. 

“Yes, it is a letter,” replied Miss Barrow, tartly; 
“ but it belongs to Mr. Rockbridge, and how came it 
in your possession, I wish to know ?” 

“ I suppose mademoiselle’s lover dropped it as he was 
mounting his horse,” replied the French girl, “ as I picked 
it up beneath the rack where the horse had stood.” 


DR. REYNARD PLAYS HIS LAST CARD. 369 


“ You may go,” said her mistress, curtly. And Su- 
sanne left the apartment to inform Mr. Reynard that 
she had done his bidding faithfully, and pocketed the 
reward of her treachery in the shape of a ten-dollar bill. 

“ Had I loved her, he could not have bought me,” 
said the French girl, as she stole away with a guilty 
feeling quite new to her simple heart. 

Helen Barrow sat gazing at the rose-tinted envelope 
for a moment or two with a feeling of anguished jeal- 
ousy growing at her heart. The letter had been 
opened by tearing across the edge of the envelope. 
Should she read it or keep it and give it back to him 
when he paid his next visit ? 

Bertha Lombard would have laid it away and waited 
for her lover to explain things to her. Helen Barrow 
preferred setting her doubts at rest herself, without 
waiting for the more honorable course ; so she slipped 
the inclosure out of the open envelope, and was prop- 
erly punished for her want of faith. 

It purported to have been written by some love-lorn 
damsel in the city of New Orleans, and, to account for 
the absence of a postmark, I presume, the idea was 
ingeniously conveyed that secrecy had demanded its 
being sent as an inclosure in some one else^s letter ; 

‘‘ My own Horace, — Are you never coming back 
to me ? If you stay away much longer, I shall be- 
lieve what C. says of you. He says that your pre- 
tended visit to your aunt is all a blind, — that you have, 
in reality, gone to visit that rich Miss Barrow. 

“ But I will not believe him, Horace dear, until you 
give me better cause to doubt your love than I have 
yet had. I laugh in C.’s hateful face, and tell him I 
am fortunate in having heard you express your real 
opinion of that affected little monkey, and he will have 
to invent some more plausible story to make me doubt 
my future husband. I am not afraid of your little 
pug-nosed coquette, Horace mine, but I am afraid that 
you will never be able to get your aunt to forgive that 
32 


3t0 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


last slip. Try hard, dearest, to make the old lady be- 
lieve that you are going to be a model boy after this. 
Yow and declare and swear, by all the gods and god- 
desses, that you will never touch another card or drink 
another drop, and make haste and patch things up, for 
I am getting desperately tired of waiting, and will 
marry C. pretty soon just to spite you. 

“Your Lucy.” 

Horror, astonishment, and disgust were written 
legibly upon Helen’s bright face as she concluded the 
perusal of this artfully-contrived fraud. 

“The low creature 1 She is fasti Disgusting I” 
Then she threw the paper passionately into the fire, 
and, locking her door, she flung herself upon her bed, 
and shed the first tears that had wetted her cheeks 
since she had broken her last doll. 

Fortunately for the Messrs. Reynard in this juncture, 
it never once occurred to Helen to demand an explana- 
tion of Mr. Rockbridge. No ; she had been insulted, 
— outrageously insulted, — and she would never / 
never I never see his hateful, deceitful face again I 

Which determination she carried so heroically into 
execution that, after having called three times, and 
been denied admittance without any excuse whatever 
to palliate the denial, Mr. Rockbridge’s pride took fire 
and he turned his back upon Aland and its capricious 
little mistress, vowing that the time should come when 
he would know what it all meant, and feeling confident 
that when it did come, Helen would be the one to sue 
for pardon and not himself. 

Within another month the house at Aland was closed 
up for the summer, the whole family having gone North. 

Mrs. Reynard had written to Mrs. Winchester, asking 
permission to pay her a visit, and hinting at her de- 
sire to leave her daughter and niece with her for a 
short while, and had received by return of mail such a 
sweet, cordially-expressed invitation for the two young 


‘ ‘ THOSE WINCHESTERS. ” 3 Y 1 

girls that Bertha’s sad heart went out to her instinct- 
ively. 

‘‘Ah, I know I shall love her,” she murmured, 
gently, as she handed the letter which had been given 
her for perusal back to her aunt. 

“Ah, I know I shall never, never love anything 
again,” sighed Helen, sentimentally, “for everybody 
in this world is full of black deceit.” 

Bertha smiled in sad amusement at this lugubrious 
decision, coming from a young lady whose severest 
misfortune in life, so far, was a lover’s quarrel. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

“those winchesters.” 

The home, which my readers will recollect had been 
bequeathed to the Winchesters, along with the rest of 
the worldly possessions of the lonely old woman whom 
Paul had rescued from death by fire, had been con- 
verted, by Mrs. Paul Winchester’s fairy fingers, into 
one of the most attractive suburban residences that 
ever adorned the outskirts of a town. 

The grounds around it, which had been sadly neg- 
lected during the period which Mrs. Crouch had spent 
in lodgings, had long since been restored to their pris- 
tine glory. 

The handsome old stone-fronted mansion, large 
enough, as Mr. Winchester often declared, to lodge a 
regiment of infantry comfortably, had been restored to 
more than its original elegance, in preparation for the 
majority of Mr. Charlie Winchester, — an event now 
gone by little more than two years, — on which occa- 
sion Mrs. Winchester had given an entertainment on 


3t2 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES, 


the most magnificent scale, “ Because, Paul dear,^’ she 
had said, “you know we have but one boy, and he 
will never come of age again ; so we cannot make too 
much of the proud occasion.” And Paul had laughed 
at the flimsy excuse the fond mother had invented for 
bidding all her little world come and do homage to her 
handsome boy, but had made no objection, for whatever 
Jeannie proposed was generally found unobjectionable 
by both husband and son. 

“ It is your money, little woman ; do as you please 
with it,” was generally the off-hand reply of Mr. Win- 
chester, when Mrs. Winchester suggested any expendi- 
ture, or proposed any improvement about the premises. 

And then she would say, “ Ours, dear Paul ; I can- 
not bear that ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ between husband and 
wife. Besides, dearest, it was you who saved the poor 
old lady’s life, and I never have understood your per- 
versity in settling everything on Charlie and me, and 
going back to your musty old law books.” 

“ I found, wife, that I was intended for work, and 
not for play. I found reaping what another had sown 
exceedingly demoralizing. It was meet and proper 
that your really filial devotion to a lonely old woman 
should be rewarded, but it was not meet and proper 
that I should eat the bread of idleness all the days of 
my life because my wife had accidentally come into 
an inheritance ; and I have been perfectly happy, Mrs. 
Winchester, since I returned to the musty old law 
books, of which you speak so disrespectfully,” would 
our old friend Paul reply. 

The Charlie of whom Mrs. Winchester was so justly 
proud was absent from home when Mrs. Reynard’s 
unexpected letter arrived, attending to some law busi- 
ness for his father in a different State. 

For Mr. Charlie Winchester had rebelled stoutly 
against his mother’s avowed predilections for the min- 
istry as his calling, and had begged so earnestly not 
to be forced into a profession for which he felt himself 
so entirely unfitted, that gentle Mrs. Winchester had 


“ THOSE WINCHESTEliS” 


373 


yielded with a sigh, and the young man was, at the 
time of which we are writing, one of the most prom- 
ising of the newly-licensed lawyers at the bar of his 
native town. 

He had grown up to be remarkably handsome, hav- 
ing combined his father’s noble presence with his 
mother’s almost perfect features. In short, it was the 
universal verdict ox the young ladies of H. that 
“ Charlie Winchester was the handsomest creature 
they ever had seen.” Fortunately for the son of our 
old friend Paul, he had so well balanced a head upon 
his handsome shoulders that feminine adulation had so 
far failed to make him in the least degree vain or con- 
ceited. He was simply a bright, handsome, manly 
young fellow ; with plenty of good hard American 
sense; with a warm heart and a quick temper; equally 
ready to resent an insult or forgive an injury, — a boy 
with a host of friends of his own sex, — his father’s 
secret pride and his mother’s open boast. 

Such was the young “ black-coat” from whose pres- 
ence Mr. James Reynard pictured to himself his per- 
verse Helen flying for relief into his own outstretched 
arms. 

On the evening upon which the Reynard party was 
expected to arrive, the Winchester mansion wxis cheer- 
fully lighted up, and Mrs. Winchester was fluttering 
around in a state of almost girlish excitement ; for she 
had long wished to see the children of her husband’s 
dearest friend, and had frequently lamented her own 
utter powerlessness to thaw Mrs. Reynard into friend- 
ship. 

“Is she very awe-inspiring, Paul?” asked the little 
lady, as she fluttered from window to window of her 
handsome drawing-room, festooning the rich curtains 
afresh. 

“ Desperately so,” replied Mr. Winchester, dryly, as 
he recalled to memory Agnes Snowe’s chilling hauteur. 
“ And, wife, let me make one request of you ?” 

“A thousand, husband, if you can think of so many 
32 * 


374 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


before they get here.’’ And Mrs. Winchester came and 
stood near him, turning her pretty head first upon one 
side and then upon the other, the better to view her 
artistic arrangement of the damask draperies. 

“You know, wife, you are the least little bit in the 
world given to undue boasting over our boy Charlie,” 
said Paul. 

“ Certainly I am,” replied Mrs. Winchester, proudly; 
“ and Charlie is a boy that no mother could help boast- 
ing of.” 

“ I think we are both agreed,” answered Mr. Win- 
chester, with a smile, “ on the subject of Mr. Charlie 
Winchester’s perfections; but what I was going to 
say, Jeannie dear, was this, — you know Mrs. Reynard 
has been most sadly aflfiicted in her son. I have been 
informed that he drank himself into a state of imbe- 
cility before he returned from Europe, and that he has 
never been himself since.” 

“Poor Mrs. Reynard,” said Jeannie, with ready 
sympathy, “how she must have suffered I Her only 
son, too I” 

“ It is terrible,” responded Paul, gravely so you 
see, wife, how exceedingly painful it would he to hear 
your proud praises of our dear boy, while she, poor 
woman, has to blush at the mention of her only son’s 
name.” 

“ True, dear Paul, it was very thoughtful of you to 
warn me, for I am afraid I should have run on in my 
usual foolish style about my boy, and, of course, it 
would be agony to her.” 

As Mrs. Winchester concluded her sentence, a loud 
ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of her ex- 
pected guests. With easy grace the sweet little woman 
received her august visitors, and Mr. Winchester noted, 
with a fond, proud smile, that his true-hearted little 
wife played the part of hostess impartially to the rich 
Mrs. Reynard and the poor Miss Lombard, and seemed 
blissfully unconscious that she was being patronized 
by the former lady. That night, in three separate bed- 


THOSE WINCHESTERS.^^ 


Z16 


chambers in the Winchester mansion, three separate 
couples passed comments upon each other individually. 

“Oh, Paul, she is desperately stiff! I wonder if 
she has frozen into a statue since her troubles came 
upon her. You know misfortune does harden some 
people.’’ 

“I think, my dear,” replied Mr. Winchester, “that 
Mrs. Reynard’s stiffness antedates, by some years, 
the death of her husband or the downfall of her son.” 

“ What do you think of Helen ?” 

“ I think she is just what they have made her be- 
tween them all.” 

“ So do I. But isn’t Miss Lombard an angelic 
creature ? She is perfectly beautiful, and such lovely 
manners !” 

“ Lovely,” said Paul, sleepily acquiescent. 

“ Paul dear, wouldn’t it be delicious if Charlie 
should fall in love with her ? How I could love such 
a daughter-in-law.” 

“ My dear, don’t you think — you’re — the least little 
— bit — in — a hurry?” The last word terminated in 
something wonderfully like a snore, and Mr. Paul 
Winchester slept the sleep of the just. 

Hii Mu Mi * * * 

“Mrs. Winchester seems to be quite a nice person,” 
said Mrs. Reynard, condescendingly, as she prepared 
to take off her hair. 

“Yes, — and Winchester seems to be pretty much of 
a gentleman, too. I wonder where the young parson 
is ?” 

“ I have no idea,” replied Agnes ; “ I do not fancy, 
from the picture of him that was sent to Mr. Barrow, 
when the boy was eight or nine years old, that he has 
grown up anything to be proud of, and I suppose they 
are keeping him in the background.” 

“Attending camp-meeting somewhere, I suppose,” 
said Dr. Reynard, contemptuously. 

“Dr. Reynard,” resumed his wife, “one day will be 
sufficiently long for you and me to stay here. We can 


316 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


leave the girls, but I should die if I had to stay one 
day longer than to-morrow.” 

“ Certainly, my dear Agnes, I am only awaiting 
your orders, — am ready to start whenever you say so.” 

One day, thought Dr. Reynard, will enable me to 
discover if this man knows anything about Ralph, and 
after that I, too, shall want to leave. 

One day, thought Mrs. Reynard, will be as long as I 
can possibly stay to witness the happiness of that woman. 
Oh, how happy she is, and how he does love her I 
* * * * * 

“ Helen I” cried Bertha, enthusiastically, “ did you 
ever see two people to whom your heart went out so 
directly and so entirely as it does to Mr. and Mrs. 
Winchester ?” 

“ Bertha,” said the heart-broken victim of Mr. Rock- 
bridge’s supposed perfidy, “ how often will I have to 
tell you that my heart will never again go out to any 
one, — that it is broken, Bertha, — broken?” 

“Nonsense !” said matter-of-fact Bertha. “ If you had 
loved Mr. Rockbridge sufficiently to break your heart 
about him, you never would have discarded him with- 
out at least allowing him an opportunity to explain 
himself.” 

“ Explain ! how could he explain away that atrocious 
letter ? How explain away that odious fast creature’s 
calling me a pug-nosed coquette, — how could he ?” 

But Bertha was growing weary of the often-repeated 
outcries against Mr. Rockbridge. She did not believe 
the letter to have been his property, had said as much 
to Helen, and it was extremely vexatious, when she 
tried to broach a fresher and much more interesting 
subject, to have Helen fall back upon her own imagi- 
nary ills. 

So, as Helen wouldn’t talk about that “ lovely Mrs. 
Winchester ” and “ that noble-looking Mr. Winchester,” 
Bertha grew contrary too, and would not talk about 
anything; and I am ashamed to have to acknowledge 
that Miss Barrow’s final melodramatic “ how could 


THOSE WINCHESTERS:' 3*7 1 

he?’’ was nipped in the bud by a most undisguised 
yawn from Miss Lombard’s pretty mouth, which had 
the effect of converting her cousin’s tragic declama- 
tion against the perfidious Horace into a most school- 
girlish display of spiteful vexation. 

“ I declare, Bertha, you are the most perfectly heart- 
less girl I ever saw in my life. You have shown me 
not one spark of sympathy in this the most trying 
ordeal a woman can be called upon to pass through. 
You laugh at my sorrows instead of feeling for them ; 
you — I declare I — you — why, Berthal — the mean thing I 
— she is sound asleep.” 

The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Winchester 
invited Dr. Reynard into his office, where the two pre- 
pared to smoke the cigars which seem to be so abso- 
lutely essential to the proper digestion of a man’s food. 
For a little while, their conversation ran on general 
topics, then Mr. Winchester purposely and openly 
brought it around to Ralph Barrow. 

“ Dr. Reynard,” he said, “ I would like exceedingly 
to hear from you something about my poor cousin’s 
son. Of course it is a subject which must be exceed- 
ingly painful to Mrs. Reynard, and therefore I have 
been compelled to obtain from chance sources all that 
I have ever heard about him. Is it really true that he 
drank himself into a state of imbecility before he 
returned from Europe ?” 

Too true, sir,” said John Reynard, gravely, — “ too 
sadly true.” 

“ And do you, as a physician, consider his case a 
hopeless one ?” 

“ I did, sir, at one time,” replied Ralph’s stepfather, 
fixing his keen black eyes searchingly upon the frank, 
honest face before him, “ but recently I have begun 
to entertain hopes of his recovery.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Winchester, heartily, “I am truly 
glad, — truly glad to hear you say so I I suppose you 
are compelled to leave him at Aland during your 


DEAD MEN'S SHOES. 


378 

absence ? I cannot see how my Cousin Agnes could 
bring herself to leave him alone in the place.” 

He is not at Aland at present, Mr. Winchester, 
and since you have taken such a kind interest in my 
poor stepson, I feel emboldened to tell you that I am 
just now a prey to the very keenest anxiety on his 
account.” This with an air of fatherly concern. 
“You will please to understand, Mr. Winchester, that 
what I am about to tell you is in the strictest con- 
fidence. In order to prevent my dear Agnes from suf- 
fering the agonies of suspense, that only a mother’s 
heart can suffer when the fate of her only son is uncer- 
tain, I have been compelled to deceive her in every 
way lately ; and, in fact, this intrusion upon your hos- 
pitality is only one step of the many I have been com- 
pelled to resort to in order to keep her in the dark. 
Let me tell my story more connectedly, however, 
and then you will be able to judge for yourself how 
perplexing my position is. I hope you may also be 
able to assist me with your advice, for I know of no 
one to whom I would so gladly turn for assistance as 
to the dear friend and near relative of the lamented 
Mr. Barrow.” 

Mr. Winchester thanked him for his good opinion of 
him, and then begged him to proceed with his story. 

“ You have already heard, Mr. Winchester, of the 
melancholy condition in which my stepson returned 
from Europe. His condition was such that I was com- 
pelled to confine him closely at home, but you will 
agree with me, Mr. Winchester, that it would have 
been decidedly cruel to deny my poor Helen the 
gayeties so dear to her sex and age on account of her 
brother’s melancholy situation ; so, during the past 
winter, when Mrs. Reynard decided to introduce her 
daughter into society, I was necessarily compelled to 
leave home, and to leave Ralph behind me. I left him 
in charge of a most excellent lady, the former gov- 
erness of my niece. Miss Lombard ; for, as he was as 
docile as a lamb, all he required was some one to see 


“ THOSE winchesters: 


379 


that his daily wants were properly cared for, and I 
knew Miss Chevreul’s tender heart so well, that I 
could safely intrust my poor stepson with her. But 
just one day before my return the boy disappeared 
from Aland, sir, and up to the present time I have 
found it utterly impossible to trace him. ” 

“Whatl” exclaimed Mr. Winchester, starting for- 
ward eagerly in his chair, “disappeared! Was he 
alone ? — how do you know he is not dead 

“ Because,” replied John Reynard, “I have discov- 
ered that he was seen on a boat by a person whom I 
know very well, and was apparently in company with 
a gentleman, who treated him most kindly; and up to 
last night, when I arrived at this house, I was mad 
enough to hope that, during my absence from home, 
you might have seen fit to pay your old friend’s chil- 
dren a visit, and had persuaded the dear boy to return 
home with you.” This with an air of frank honesty. 

Mr. Winchester looked at the crafty scoundrel, who 
was telling him his distressful tale with so elaborate 
an assumption of generous confidence, with unmiti- 
gated astonishment in his own truth-telling eyes. 

“What, sir I” he exclaimed, while an angry frown 
contracted his handsome brows, “ you thought I stole 
like a thief in the night and kidnapped my young 
cousin, without the knowledge of any one in the 
house? Rather a peculiar supposition. Dr. Reynard, 
upon my soul, sir I” 

“ Not ‘ kidnapped,’ nor ‘ stolen,’ nor anything of that 
sort, my dear sir ; but you certainly had a perfect right 
to visit Aland, and Ralph, being his own master, would 
certainly have had a right to accept your invitation to 
visit you in return.” 

“ I should certainly, sir, not have enticed a half-crazy 
boy away from his home without at least having the 
courtesy to leave a line of explanation for his mother.” 

“ A thousand pardons, my dear Mr. Winchester. I 
see now how absurd was my supposition; but you 
must make allowance for the bewildered state of my 


380 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


brain when I found our poor boy gone, and was even 
debarred from making open search on account of my 
anxiety to save my beloved Agnes the tortures of sus- 
pense.” 

“And pray what story have you seen fit to impose 
upon Mrs. Reynard ?” asked Paul Winchester, coldly, 
for he felt a rapidly-increasing dislike for the wearer 
of his dead cousin’s shoes. 

“ I have simply told her that the boy has gone on a 
visit to an old schoolmate Fortunately, I returned 
to Aland some six or seven* days before Mrs. Reynard 
and Helen got back, and she is at present under that 
impression.” 

“ Humph I” exclaimed Paul, “ and yet she does not 
think strangely of never receiving any letters from him. 
She is easily blinded.” 

“ As for letters,” said Dr. Reynard, quickly, “Ralph 
was always a poor correspondent at the best, which 
prevents her noticing his silence at present.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Paul, in an irrepressible burst of 
indignation, “you are most fortunate in having a 
wife who is so careless a mother that any such flimsy 
fabrication can satisfy her. But, by God, sir ! the wel- 
fare of Otis Barrow’s son is of more importance to me 
than shielding Mrs. Reynard’s imaginary feelings, and 
I shall take it upon myself, sir, to institute search for 
my cousin’s son immediately, and publicly.” 

“ I assure you, Mr. Winchester, I most cordially 
thank you for your promised assistance. Make your 
search as rigid as you please, but let me implore you 
not to disturb the serenity which my poor wife is at 
present enjoying. She can assist us in no way in the 
search; therefore why inflict needless suffering upon 
her by destroying the harmless deception I have prac- 
ticed upon her?” 

“ Possibly you are right there. She may stay in 
her blissful ignorance, though I have small reason to 
believe that her heart would break if the very worst 
should have happened to poor Ralph.” 


THOSE winchesters:^ 


381 


The two men were mutually puzzling each other. 
Surely, thought John Reynard, the man’s indignation 
and surprise are genuine. It is impossible to look into 
his clear, truthful eye, or be long in his imposing 
presence, and believe he could stoop to a lie, especially, 
as in the present instance, there is no one to fear. 
Therefore, where in the devil’s name has that witch 
spirited Ralph to ? 

Evidently, thought Paul Winchester, the story of 
Ralph’s disappearance must be true, for he could 
hardly tell me so shallow a lie when I could so easily 
disprove it. But if the boy has disappeared, it is 
through his agency, and if through his agency, why 
should he take the trouble to hunt me up and inform 
me of the whole affair, when, by reason of distance 
and estrangement, he had not the slightest reason to 
apprehend my discovering it for myself? There is the 
knotty point, — why has he sought me out and told me 
the whole affair, when he must have known that Otis’s 
children would always find a powerful friend in me ? 
He had no means of knowing that the frank avowal 
of his cousin’s successor was made in the desperate 
hope of entrapping him into some acknowledgment 
that might lead to an elucidation of the mystery which 
had by this time grown unfathomable to John Reynard. 

“ You will now understand, Mr. Winchester,” the 
arch-schemer went on to say, how exceedingly neces- 
sary it is for me to return South immediately. As I 
before remarked, up to last night I entertained the 
wild hope of finding our poor wanderer domesticated 
with you, and had even drawn a foolish little heart- 
picture of the happy surprise it would be to his mother ; 
but now, I must prosecute my search in a new direc- 
tion.” And Dr. Reynard heaved a sigh of melancholy 
discouragement 

Mr. Winchester replied by some commonplace con- 
ventionalities, to the effect that he would be happy to 
have Dr. Reynard prolong his visit, etc. etc.; but the 
words were insincere, and they came in a bungling 
33 


382 


DEAD MEN^B SHOES. 


fashion from Paul’s truthful lips. At the close of their 
conference, John Reynard, with an assumption of 
honest candor which was Machiavelian in its policy, 
made a most desperately bold move. 

“ Mr. Winchester, do you really desire to assist me 
in discovering the whereabouts of my stepson ?” 

“ I most certainly do, Dr. Reynard,” replied Mr. 
Winchester ; “ and your question, sir, implies a doubt 
of my sincerity which I feel compelled to protest 
against.” 

“ A thousand pardons, my dear sir, — a thousand 
pardons I To show you how mistaken you are in fancy- 
ing that I mistrust your sincerity, I am about to give 
you the most remarkable proof of confidence one man 
ever gave to another.” 

“You honor me,” said Paul, coldly. 

“ I have reason to believe that my wife’s niece. Miss 
Lombard, is cognizant of Ralph’s whereabouts.” 

“ Then why not ask her where he is ?” said Paul, 
bluntly. 

“ Exactly,” said Dr. Reynard, with a sneering dis- 
tortion of his upper lip, which was an abortion of a 
smile. “ Miss Lombard is complimentary enough to 
assign to me the role of principal villain in this family 
tragedy, and without any assigned or assignable cause 
has chosen to withhold from me the name of a gentle- 
man who spent one night at Aland during my absence 
from home, and who is, I have every reason to believe, 
the individual with whom my stepson is now staying.” 

“Most remarkable!” was Paul’s ejaculatory inter- 
ruption. 

“And in this matter, Mr. Winchester, you can do 
more than I, who have, in some unaccountable way, 
gained the ill will of my pretty niece-in-law, dare hope 
to accomplish.” 

“ In what way ?” asked Paul. 

“ By discovering from Bertha who it was that spent 
a night at Aland during my absence; and also, the 
place of residence of the mysterious stranger.” 


‘ THOSE WINCHESTERS:^ 


383 


“I presume that will be easy enough,” said Paul ; 
“a plain question will elicit a plain answer.” 

“ Not quite so easy, ray dear Mr. Winchester, as it 
appears at first sight. A plain question would make 
manifest to my niece that we are acting in concert, and 
once let her think that, and if she has reasons of her 
own to keep this secret, wild horses could not drag it 
from her.” 

“ What in the devil, then, do you wish me to do ?” 
exclaimed Paul Winchester, angrily, for, with all his 
lawyer’s astuteness, he was not able to follow his 
crafty leader through the labyrinthine mazes of deceit. 

“ The only way in which you can really aid me is to 
make this discovery without seeming to have an object 
in it, and to forward to me the name and address of 
this stranger, without letting Bertha know anything 
of this conference.” 

This was a bold and a perilous step on John Rey- 
nard’s part, and he saw the peril clearly ; but there 
was one faint chance that Mr. Winchester might for- 
ward him the desired information, without Bertha dis- 
covering anything, in which case he could carry into 
immediate execution his plan of administering to Ralph 
the nostrum which was to produce temporary madness, 
and enable him to gain legal possession of his victim 
once more. 

‘‘The role that you have assigned me. Dr. Reynard,” 
said Paul, “ is so very peculiar a one, and your whole 
narrative so remarkable, that I must really request 
time to ponder over it before I express an opinion or 
commit myself by any promises. If you please, we 
will return to the ladies.” And throwing into the 
grate the unsmoked cigar he had been holding between 
his fingers, Mr. Winchester arose and led the way 
back to the drawing-room. 

D — d risky, thought the desperate schemer, as he 
followed his host from the room ; but the game’s almost 
up, anyhow, and that is my one last chance for un- 
earthing the boy. 


384 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


The next morning, early, Dr. Reynard and his wife 
left, the two young ladies remaining behind. 

“You will let me hear from you, I presume?” Dr. 
Reynard had said in a low voice on taking leave of 
his host. 

“ As soon as I have any information to give you 
which will benefit my young cousin, you shall certainly 
hear from me,” was the equivocal reply with which he 
had to content himself. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

PENITENT HELEN. 

Pour months had elapsed since Helen Barrow and 
Bertha Lombard had become inmates of Mrs. Win- 
chester’s hospitable house. Four months of placid 
content and patient hope to Bertha Lombard, for the 
very morning after John Reynard had played the 
hazardous game of trying to convert Mr. Winchester 
from a probable foe into a possible colleague, Bertha 
had gone to that gentleman in his study, and, telling 
him sweetly and frankly that she had a long and 
strange story to tell him, had begun at the moment 
of her cousin’s return from Europe, and had related 
everything concerning him to her deeply interested 
auditor, — her own proceedings in his behalf; their 
cessation by authority of Dr. Reynard; their re- 
sumption in the absence of that gentleman ; their 
indorsement by Dr. Gardiner ; her cousin’s presence 
under that gentleman’s roof; her discovery of the 
letter which had been written to Mr. Winchester on 
her uncle’s death, and its suppression by some party 
or parties unknown ; and finally, she wound up by an 
earnest request that Mr. Winchester would write to 
Dr. Gardiner and learn something more definite than 


PENITENT HELEN 


385 


she had so far been able to learn of her cousin’s pro- 
gress toward recovery. 

Mr. Winchester had listened to the young girl’s 
recital with intensest interest, never once interrupting 
her by unnecessary comments. 

She told the story of Ralph’s wrongs with glowing 
cheeks and sparkling eyes, looking all the while sweetly 
unconscious that she had done anything herself de- 
serving of the slightest comment. 

Then Paul had written to Dr. Gardiner, but not to 
Dr. Reynard, and Dr. Gardiner had written back word 
that Mr. Winchester’s young relative was on the fair 
way to recovering his mind, — was improving daily, 
physically and mentally, and as soon as Dr. Gardiner 
considered his mind strengthened enough for him to 
occupy himself \yith business concerns, he himself 
would accompany him to H., for no other purpose, the 
good old doctor added, than to receive a kiss of thanks 
from his little brown-eyed heroine Bertha. 

So the little brown-eyed heroine Bertha was possess- 
ing her soul in peace ; thanking God humbly every 
morning and night for having blessed her efforts in 
Ralph’s behalf, and looking forward with placid con- 
tent to the time, not far distant, she dared hope, when 
she should see the Ralph of the olden time, — bright, 
brave, joyous, — and the specter Ralph — imbecile, mel- 
ancholy, decrepit — should be remembered only as a 
hideous dream of the past. 

Nor had these four months been uneventful ones to 
other members of the Winchester household. 

Charlie, perverse boy that he was, had insisted upon 
disappointing his tender-hearted little mother a second 
time in her most cherished wishes, and had fallen in 
love with bright, piquant, saucy Helen Barrow, when 
his mother so ardently longed to fold lovely Bertha 
Lombard to her maternal heart and call her daughter. 
But when Charlie declared that beautiful and graceful 
as Miss Lombard assuredly was, she was “ not his 
style,” and when Paul consoled his dear little wife 


386 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


for her grievous disappointment by telling her that he 
had good reason to believe that sweet Bertha’s heart 
had already gone entirely from her keeping, and further 
added an expression of the great happiness it would 
be to himself to see his son married to his cousin’s 
daughter, Jeannie prepared, as was her wont, to make 
the very best of things as they were ; in pursuance of 
which plan she set herself to work to penetrate the 
substratum of coldness and selfishness that had been 
carefully spread over Helen’s naturally warm heart and 
loving disposition, showing the young girl her glaring 
faults so lovingly and tenderly that she could not take 
offense, expressing so much pained surprise at any ex- 
hibition of temper or selfishness that the spoiled girl 
made, that during the progress of the four months 
Helen had made vast strides toward becoming the 
bright, attractive little sunbeam she had originally 
promised to be. 

And she and Charlie were actually engaged to be 
married ! and she was so happy that she must run and 
tell Bertha. Bertha was sitting in her own room, 
quietly reading ; for she was a discreet young lady, 
who always knew when she was de trop, and Charlie 
had evidently been suffering under such excessive in- 
ternal excitement, that she knew a proposal must be 
imminent, so, as Mr. and Mrs. Winchester were out 
in the garden, superintending some improvements 
about the grounds, Bertha had left the two young 
people alone in the cosy library, and had gone to her 
own room to read. But her reading was brought to 
an abrupt termination by a diminutive little lady drop- 
ping suddenly down on her knees by her side, and 
laying a flushed cheek upon the book in Miss Lom- 
bard’s lap. The little lady had begged her to stop 
reading, because she had *‘such a secret to tell 
her.” 

“ Well,” said Bertha, smiling indulgently, and trying 
to look very curious about the secret which was no 
secret at all, “ let us hear this secret, cousin mine.” 


PENITENT HELEN 


381 


“ Oh, Berthe, Charlie and I are engaged ! Really 
engaged, Berthe I” 

“You ‘little pug-nosed coquette,”^ said Bertha, 
taking the organ in question between her thumb and 
forefinger, “ you do not suppose you are telling me 
news, do you 

“News ! I should think I was, Berthe, for I’ve only 
known it for half an hour myself.” 

“ Poor Mr. Rockbridge !” said Bertha, in tones of 
mock pity. 

“ Let him marry his odious Lucy,” said Helen, with 
a pout ; “ you know, Berthe, I never really did love 
him, anyhow.” 

“ I know you did not,” said Bertha ; “ no woman is 
so ready to distrust the man she ‘really does love.’ ” 

“No, indeed,” answered Helen, looking very wise; 
“ I know all about it now, though, for I do love Charlie, 
very, very dearly !” 

“Then your poor heart is not really ‘broken, 
Berthe, — broken V ” said Bertha, teasingly. 

“ Ah, cousin, you cannot tease me now, for I am so 

very, very happy I And, Berthe ” Helen paused, 

and, clasping her two little hands upon Bertha’s lap, 
she looked up in her cousin’s beautiful face with eyes 
full of generous contrition. 

“ Well, Helen ?” 

“ I want to beg your pardon, dear, dear Bertha, for 
all the unkindness, and coldness, and selfishness I’ve 
shown toward you since I came home from Europe. 
I don’t think I’m very bad ; at least, Bertha, — at least not 
incurably bad, for many a time when I’ve been cross- 
est with you, it was because I felt you were so much 
better and more lovable than I, and then I would hate 
myself because I could not be like you, and then that 
would anger me against you, because you know, Ber- 
tha, a body doesn’t like to be made to despise one’s self; 
but since I’ve been in this true home, cousin, and seen 
every one in it, from Cousin Paul down to my Charlie, 
so kind, so gentle, and so unselfish, I’ve gotten to de- 


388 


^EAD MEN’S SHOES. 


spising myself worse than ever, Bertie dear, and I’ve 
tried to convince Charlie that he just pities me and 
don’t love me, because I’m too bad to be loved real hard 
by anybody, and I tell him I think he made a mistake 
in asking me to marry him instead of you, but he says 
he didn’t; and so, Bertha dear, I’m going to try to be- 
come worthy of Charlie, and if you’ll forgive the past, 
dear, and help me to be just like you, it will be so much 
easier, for, oh, Bertha ! I’ve been mean and selfish for 
so long now, that I’m afraid I never will be fit for any- 
thing, — do you think I will ?” And penitent Helen 
looked up in her cousin’s face with a brightly pleading 
look. 

“ Indeed I do, dear cousin,” answered Bertha, 
heartily. “ I think you have already canceled a great 
proportion of your past offenses by your frank avowal 
and honest contrition.” 

Bertha,” said Helen, reflectively, “ I tell you where 
I think mamma made a terrible mistake with me.” 

“ Where?” said Bertha, with an amused smile. 

“ In sending me to Aunt Yerzenay. Aunt was very 
fashionable and very selfish, and yet very much ad- 
mired, and I, poor simpleton ! thought that to be very 
much admired I, too, must be very selfish and fashion- 
ably cold. Any exhibition of feeling, any display of 
heart, I thought must be disgustingly plebeian, and so 
indeed it was considered in the Yerzenay school ; and 
so, cousin, for the last four or five years I have been 
rigidly suppressing my heart, have kept it under a sort 
of fashionable tourniquet, until I verily believe it is 
no larger than a boy’s marble.” 

“ Is ?” said Bertha, smiling meaningly. 

“ Was, then, Bertie, until I came into this heaven 
of love and peace, — and oh, cousin ! what good cause I 
have to bless the chance which brought me here !” 

“You were sent here, Helen mine, to cure you of 
your fancy for Mr. Rockbridge. I think it is your step- 
father’s earnest desire that you should marry his 
brother.” 


PENITENT HELEN. 


389 


“ I think so too, Bertha,” said Helen, breaking into 
a merry laugh. “ And if my Charlie had been home 
when papa was here, I verily believe he would have 
taken me away with him. Isn’t it funny, to think that 
I should have come way up here to find the one only 
human being I ever could have loved really and 
truly ?” 

Bertha smiled an incredulous smile, for she did not 
believe that Helen would have remained disconsolate 
long, even if handsome Charlie Winchester had not 
come along so opportunely to heal the wounds inflicted 
by perfidious Horace Rockbridge. 

“ And, Bertha,” began Helen once more, “ I will never 
be perfectly happy until dear Ralph is found, and I’ve 
begged his pardon, too, for all my cruel conduct toward 
him.” 

“That was your gravest sin, Helen ; I cannot say one 
word in extenuation of it.” 

Helen’s bright eyes filled with tears. “ He will forgive 
me, Bertha, if you ask him. Ask him to forgive me for 
your sake. But will we ever find him, cousin ?” she con- 
tinued. “Oh, I am so anxious ” 

“ A gentleman for Miss Lombard in the parlor.” 

Bertha glanced up quickly and Mr. Paul Winchester 
stood in the doorway, a smile of peculiar meaning play- 
ing around his mouth, while his fine eyes were glisten- 
ing with a dewy something, which would have been 
pronounced tears if it had glittered upon a woman’s lids 
instead of a man’s. 

“ It is Ralph I” said Bertha, in a voice almost solemn 
from emotion; then she put Helen quickly out of the 
way and glided swiftly from the room. Helen was start- 
ing impulsively after her, but Paul put his arm around 
her waist, and guiding her footsteps toward the family 
sitting-room instead of the parlor, he said, inja voice 
husky with emotion, — 

“ Let their meeting be unwitnessed, little daughter ; 
she is more to him than all the world besides, and she 
should be, for, under God, he has her and her alone to 


390 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


thank that he is this day a man in every sense of the 
word, instead of a poor imbecile wreck.” 

“So he has ! so he has !” murmured Helen. “ And 
he is well, then, — quite well ? And he will love precious 
Bertha so dearly. Cousin Paul ; but, oh ! how shall I ever 
meet him? — my brother, my poor brother, whom I 
treated so cruelly I” 

“His heart is so full of love and thanksgiving, little 
Helen, that resentment and anger can find no room 
there, even against those who deserve them more 
fully than does my naughty, misdirected Helen. But 
come,” he added, in a lighter tone, “ our dear boy has 
been accompanied here by the good Samaritan who 
ministered unto him in the hour of his need, and we 
must all combine to show our gratitude and ^lo him 
honor.” And Helen was led into the room to^eet Hr. 
Gardiner. 

Too genuine to affect a coyness which she did not feel, 
— too true herself to doubt the truth of him she loved, 
the being who had been faithful to his childish love 
through his darkest moments, — Bertha sped gladly for- 
ward to meet Ralph. 

But could that tall, graceful figure be the bowed, at- 
tenuated form of the Ralph Barrow with whom she 
had parted only four short months ago? Were those 
flashing gray eyes, that were fixed so earnestly upon 
her advancing self, the sad, dim ones from which she 
had tried so vainly to win an answering look of intel- 
ligence? Was it really Ralph? 

Speechless with emotion, Ralph remained quite still 
until she stood upon the rug near him ; then, opening 
wide the arms that were no longer trembling, nerve- 
less, useless arms, he uttered two little words, — 

“My Bertha!” 

With a glad cry the young girl sprang into the out- 
stretched arms, and ere she left them again, the cares 
that had infested Bertha Lombard’s day “ had folded 
their tents like the Arabs, and as silently stolen away.” 

An hour passed — passed on the swiftly-flying, rosy- 


PENITENT HELEN 


391 


tinted pinions that Time only uses when he would tan- 
talize lovers, — and then Bertha, tender-hearted Bertha, 
mindful of others even in this the supremest moment 
of her life, disengaged herself from the fond clasp that 
held her and said, sweetly, — 

“ Poor little Helen, she will think me cruelly selfish 
in monopolizing you so long. You will find them all 
in the sitting-room. The little thing was talking of 
you when your name was announced.” 

“ You are coming with me, my own ? — I almost 
fear to lose sight of you again.” And Ralph Barrow 
fastened his flashing eyes in passionate adoration upon 
the beautiful face of his cousin. 

“ Presently,” said Bertha, “ I will follow you. I 
want to.be alone a little while, oh, my beloved! to 
thank the good God for the ineffable joy ^f this 
moment.” And the glance which accompanied her 
gravely-spoken words was holy in its intense gratitude. 

So Ralph passed alone into the sitting-room, where 
the rest of the family were assembled, vicing with 
each other in lavishing attentions upon their honored 
guest, the good physician who had restored Ralph to 
them. 

“My little Helen I” And the young man strode quickly 
forward with hands outstretched ; but Helen put her 
little hands behind her back, and stepping quickly be- 
hind her lover’s chair, she spoke to her brother over 
Charlie’s curly head : 

“ Don’t come any nearer, Ralphy, for I want to tell 
you something before I even touch your hand, and I’m 
afraid if you come any nearer, brother, I couldn’t keep 
from throwing ray arms around your neck, dear ; and 
maybe, after you’ve heard what I have to say, you 
never, never will let me hug you, Ralphy, but I will 
have to say it all the same.” 

Here one small hand loosed its resolute hold of the 
other and stole up to Charlie’s broad shoulder, and 
then Charlie’s sympathetic hand stole up and laid itself 
tenderly upon Ihe little fluttering palm, and this gave 


892 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


penitent Helen new conrage, so she went along right 
bravely ; 

“ You know, brother dear, that ever since I’ve been 
a little tiny thing I think everything has been done 
that could be done to make me think Helen Bar- 
row the most important personage in the world. 
Aunt Yerzenay, mamma, and Papa Reynard all had 
a hand in making me the hateful, selfish little wretch 
I am.” 

Here Charlie turned quickly and gave Miss Barrow 
an indignant look, as if he felt extremely outraged at 
the slighting manner in which she chose to speak of Mrs. 
Charles Winchester elect. Helen tossed him a look of 
defiance and resumed : 

“ I don’t want to blame them too much, but I do 
want to prove that it’s more education that’s the matter 
with me than real badness of heart.” 

Here everybody looked as if they did not think educa- 
tion was what was the matter with Miss Barrow. 

“ So when you came home so dis — cr ” 

“ Mad I” said Ralph, in a clear, sonorous voice, — “do 
not mince matters, little sister.” 

“ When you came home so m — so unfortunate, brother, 
I acted the cruelist, most selfish part by you that a 
sister ever did act. I was cross with you, Ralph, and 
spiteful and harsh.” Here she sought to withdraw 
the little hand from Charlie’s shoulder, as if in acknowl- 
edgment of her own unworthiness, but he tightened 
his clasp of it. “ And Bertha was an angel to you all 
the time, brother, and did what 1 ought to have done. 
And the only harsh words I ever heard her speak, 
Ralph, was when she reproached me for my cruel con- 
duct to you, poor brother, and I wanted to tell you all 
this before you had kissed me, Ralphy, so you might 
not be sorry afterwards. And I wanted to tell you 
before Charlie here,” — both little hands went boldly 
up now and nestled in Charlie’s brown locks,^ — “ so that 
he should know beforehand what an impostor he has 
asked to be his wife, and might retract before it was too 


PENITENT HELEN. 


393 


late.” An arm stole around her waist, which certainly 
did not look like retraction. 

“ Enough, little sister, — enough !” And once more 
Ralph Barrow extended his hands ; but still she 
waved him off : 

“ Not yet, Ralphy, — not yet. I want to tell you the 
very most glorious thing that Bertha ever did, and 
then I will seem so little and mean by contrast, that 
you will never want to kiss me, brother, nor will any- 
body else, not even Charlie here.” 

A furious look of denial from “ Charlie here,” nega- 
tived this. 

“ Once, during your mad — unfortunateness, Ralphy, 
you came to the table with your hair looking as if it 
hadn’t been combed for a week ; and, hateful me, in- 
stead of not noticing you, begged mamma to make 
you go comb it, and you flew into a fearful rage ; and 
when papa spoke to you, you darted at him with a 
knife, and mamma and I shrieked and ran out of the 
room, like the two cowardly women that we were ; but 
Bertha walked straight up to you, and before she 
could say a word you had cut her a terrible gash on 
the arm, — and the scar is there yet, brother ; and when 
I spoke about it, she cried, and said when you came 
to know anything, that wound would hurt you much 
more than it ever had hurt her, and so I thought I’d 
have to tell you that part, Ralph, for I knew she 
would never let you see that scar if she could help it. 
And now, brother, my confession is complete, and I 
ask you, and all of my dear ones in this room, to for- 
give me, not because I deserve it, but for Bertie’s 
sake.” 

Once again Ralph opened his arms, and, as he 
folded his penitent sister in them, he murmured in her 
ear, “For her dear sake.” 

And presently Bertha Lombard glided into their 
midst, and the peace that passeth all understand- 
ing lighted up her great brown eyes and irradiated 
her beautiful features. Passing straight up to Dr. 

34 


394 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


Gardiner, she held out both hands in voiceless 
greeting. 

Imprisoning both her little hands in one of his own, 
the physician reverently laid back the fall of lace that 
covered her left wrist, and baring to sight a great 
white scar, he bowed his white head and pressed his 
lips reverentially upon this silent witness to the young 
girPs heroism. 

Then Ralph Barrow, coming forward, knelt grace- 
fully upon one knee and imprinted a fervent kiss upon 
the scar, and Mr. Winchester, putting his arm around 
Becky’s child, pressed his tribute also upon the scar, 
and called down Heaven’s choicest blessings on her 
who bore it, and Charlie Winchester’s manly lips 
added their tribute of honor to Bertha Lombard’s ex- 
alted virtues, and Bertha, turning a tenderly, reproach- 
ful look at Helen for having brought all this public 
adulation upon her, sought refuge in Mrs. Winchester’s 
arms, where she fell to crying for very nervousness. 

“And all this comes, miss,” said Dr. Gardiner, 
turning in well-feigned indignation upon Helen, “from 
your having been impolite enough to request a young 
man to comb his head, when he preferred leaving it 
uncombed.” And his savage attack had the desired 
effect in relieving the overwrought feelings of the little 
party. 

“Ah, doctor,” said Helen, smiling saucily, “you can 
scold just as long as you please, sir ; Charlie’s arm is 
around me again, and I am the happiest girl in the 
world, — not even excepting Bertha.” 


CACOETHES SCRIBENDI. 


395 


CHAPTER L. 

CACOETHES SCRIBENDI. 

Cacoethes SCRIBENDI broke out in an epidemic 
form in the Winchester mansion on the day following 
the arrival of Dr. Gardiner and Ralph Barrow, in con- 
sequence of which the following letters were received 
in due time by the occupants of the Aland mansion. 

We will give Mrs. Reynard’s letters precedence : 

“Dear, dear Mamma,” wrote Miss Helen Barrow, 
after the gushing style of young ladies, — “ I am brim- 
ming over with joybil excitement and unmerited hap- 
piness, and I only wish you were right here so I could 
tell you everything, with my arms around your neck, 
and give you a kiss between evey word, for, oh, 
mamma ! mamma ! I am so happy that my heart seems 
bursting with love for all the world I 

“But let me try and tell you everything a little 
straighter. I declare it’s just like a novel, only Berthe 
is the heroine and I am the villain. How can I ever 
bless and thank you and papa enough, mamma dear, 
for bringing me to this paradise, where I have found 
perfect, perfect happiness! — for I have found Charlie. 

“ But I’m not telling you things straight, after all. 
Everything wants to get itself written all at once, and 
my heart, and my brain, and my ideas, and my words 
are all in a jumble ; but oh I such a delicious jumble, 
mother dear, — such a very delicious jumble I After all, 
things ain’t a bit like a novel ; for if it was, I would 
have been left in lonely misery until I died for all my 
badness, and Berthe alone would have been made su- 
premely happy for all her goodness. But God has 
been very, very good to me, for he has given me 


896 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Charlie; and Berthe, and Balph, and Cousin Paul, and 
precious Cousin Jennie have all been more than good 
to me, for they’ve found room in their generous hearts 
for me, the most selfish, the meanest little wretch 
that was ever redeemed by loving kindness. 

“Oh, dear me, mamma, there is no earthly use try- 
ing to write coherently when one feels so amazingly 
incoherent ! Berthe never loses her head ; she will 
have to tell you things straight ; I can’t, that is one 
thing certain. 

“Please come right on,. dear mamma, for we are all 
going to be married here where our happiness came to 
us. That means me (that’s Helen Barrow all over, 
putting herself first of all), — well, then; that means 
Charlie and Ralph, and Berthe and I. I don’t exactly 
mean that Charlie and Ralph are going to marry each 
other, and that Berthe and I are going to do likewise, 
but the names wrote themselves down in that fashion. 

“ Wasn’t it funny that Ralph should come back per- 
fectly restored (and, oh ! so handsome and manly- 
looking!) on the very day that Charlie had asked me 
to marry him ? And I was telling Berthe all about it 
when Cousin Paul came to the door and said, with oh, 
such a queer look on his face ! ‘ A gentleman for Miss 
Lombard.’ And Berthe seemed to know, by instinct, 
who it was, for she put me out of the way, and almost 
flew to the parlor, and when she came out again, oh, 
mamma, you would not have known our pale, quiet 
Berthe in the gloriously-radiant woman that happiness 
made of her in a few short moments ! Her eyes looked 
like great brown stars (who ever heard of a brown 
star?) ; but they were starry ; and her mouth, that has 
always had such a sad little look about the corners, 
was fairly dimpled and quivering with happiness. 

“ Ralph is-wild with love for her, and when they do 
stand up to get married, nobody will look at poor old 
Charlie and me, — yes, they will though, too, for if I am 
a little pug-nosed monkey, Charlie is handsome enough 
for two. 


CACOETHES SCRIBENDL 


39t 


“ So come haste to the wedding, mamma dear, for 
Berthe declares she will not go to Aland to he mar- 
ried ; and Ralph declares she shall do just as she 
pleases ; and Cousin Jennie declares it would break 
her heart if she could not have all the wedding prepa- 
rations to attend to ; and I declare I would not do any- 
thing to give her a moment’s pain. So we all declare 
that you and Papa Reynard must come on here, if you 
want to see us four made one, — no, made twain. 

“Y our supremely -ridiculous and wildly-happy daugh- 
ter, “ Helen Barrow. 

“ P.S. — That is the last time I shall ever write the 
name of ‘ Helen Barrow.’ Isn’t that funny ? 

*‘N.B. — Best love to Uncle James. H. B.” 

Mrs. Winchester to Mrs. Reynard : 

“ My dear Agnes, — You will pardon the familiarity 
of my address, I feel sure, for the tie which is so soon 
to cement the relations between our two families is so 
near and dear a one that I cannot bring myself to ad- 
dress you more formally, — my dear little daughter elect 
tells me that she has written ‘everything to you,’ but 
I am afraid if her style of composition has been as 
amusingly-erratic as her actions have been for the last 
forty-eight hours, she has flung her information at you 
in a rather chaotic fashion. Charlie’s letter to you, 
which you will receive by this mail, will say all that 
is to be said about himself and Helen ; and other let- 
ters, which are also in process of writing, will explain 
our sweet Bertha’s feelings most fully. The object of 
my own letter is merely to beg you to come on imme- 
diately, and lend me your hearty co-operation in doing 
everything that can be done to render the occasion of 
the double nuptials in our family supremely satisfac- 
tory to all concerned. Bertha’s objections to being 
married at Aland are such unanswerable ones, and my 
own desire to have my boy married where I can assist 
in making the occasion a joyous one, will seem good 


398 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


reasons, I hope, why the ceremony should be per- 
formed here instead of in Louisiana. Hoping that 
your answer to this will be given in shape of yourself 
and baggage, I am your sincere friend, 

“J. Winchester.” 

Mr. Charlie Winchester to Mrs. Reynard : 

“My dear Madam, — Letters from my mother and 
my most precious Helen will accompany this, all treat- 
ing of the one subject nearest our hearts. It is possi- 
ble, dear madam, that we are all taking your consent 
to our marriage too much as a thing granted ; but 
knowing the sincere affection subsisting between my 
father and my little Helen’s father, feeling proudly 
conscious that the possession of a fortune almost equal 
to her own will secure me against the imputation of 
fortune-hunting, and feeling still more proudly conscious 
that I have been so fortunate as to win her heart’s best 
love, your refusal seems so unlikely a contingency that, 
authorized by the hearty approval of her brother, I 
have ventured to look upon everything as most happily 
settled. Your presence, my dear mother elect; is all 
that is still lacking to make the thing perfect. Hoping 
that that deficiency will very soon be supplied, I re- 
main yours, with affectionate esteem, 

“Charles Reymond Winchester.” 

Hr. Gardiner to Dr. Reynard : 

“ Dr. Reynard. 

“ Sir, — I learn from your niece. Miss Lombard, 
that your mental anxiety concerning the welfare of 
your stepson has been extreme. Let me hasten to 
relieve you on that score, and at the same time ex- 
plain away a little theatrical mystery, with which 
Miss Lombard and myself have seen fit to amuse 
ourselves at your expense, you will say. Probably ; 
but then, my dear sir, somebody must ‘pay the 
fiddler.’ During your absence in New Orleans the 


CACOETHES SCRIBE NDI. 


399 


past winter, the veriest chance — the breaking down of 
my carriage — threw me upon the hospitalities of Aland. 
In the course of my one night’s stay there, your niece 
(by the way a most remarkable girl she is, too) dis- 
covering, through the governess, that I was a physi- 
cian of some repute in the city, explained her cousin’s 
case to me, and begged an expression of my profes- 
sional opinion thereon. It is possible, most respected 
sir, that professional courtesy would have suggested 
my refusing an opinion in your absence had not the 
young lady subjected to my analysis the very peculiar 
tonic you had left in the governess’s hands to be ad- 
ministered to your unfortunate stepson. But when, 
sir, I found that you were administering absinthe to a 
boy already tottering on the verge of confirmed lunacy, 
professional courtesy became arrayed against the com- 
mon instincts of humanity, and I saw fit, in view of 
our old acquaintance, to take the matter into my own 
hands. For the sake of your family, sir, I deemed 
it best to" do this privately, instead of having recourse 
to a public examination of the case by a board of phy- 
sicians. Your stepson has been with me ever since 
leaving his mother’s house, and is now — thanks to God 
and Bertha Lombard ! — as fine a specimen of vigorous 
manhood and keen intellect as you will find in the 
United States. Hoping that this letter will relieve 
your most natural and truly paternal anxiety about Mr. 
Barrow, I am, sir, “ John Gardiner, M.D.” 

Mr. Winchester to Dr. Reynard : 

“Dr. Reynard. 

“ Sir, — I have neither the time nor the inclination 
to write more than half a dozen lines to you. Your 
plan to convert me into a colleague in your hellish 
machinations against my unfortunate young cousin 
was neatly concocted, and might possibly have proved 
successful if, contrary to your expectations. Miss 
Lombard had not seen fit to make a confidant of me. 


400 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


Thanks to the open course pursued by her, the trap 
you had set for my unsuspecting self was laid bare. 
Congratulate yourself, sir, that your connection with 
one whom I have so much reason to love and respect 
secures you against the exposure you so richly deserve. 

“ P. Winchester.’^ 


Ralph Barrow to his mother : 

“ My dear Mother, — Under God, through my most 
well-beloved Bertha and the friend she made for me. 
Dr. Gardiner, of New Orleans, I am once more myself. 
The past is too hideous for me even to recur to it in 
writing ; moreover, my heart is too full of thankfulness 
and supreme happiness at present for so much as the 
memory of sorrow or wrong. The crowning blessing of 
my life is about to be given to me. Bertha has promised 
to be my wife. She says it would mar her happiness 
to be married at Aland, and, with God’s help, her hap- 
piness shall never be marred by act of mine. We are, 
therefore, to be married here in my cousin’s house. 
We both earnestly desire your presence on the occa- 
sion. Please say to your husband that as soon after 
my marriage as I can prevail upon my dear Bertha to 
return South, I shall relieve him of all further business 
responsibilities. 

“ Your son, dutifully, ‘‘ R. Barrow.” 

******* * 

When these letters reached Aland, the state of mind 
into which one, at least, of their recipients was thrown 
was anything but enviable. All his plotting, planning, 
sinning, and scheming had come to naught. 

Ralph Barrow restored, and soon to come, in his 
just wrath, and strip him of his borrowed plumes. 
Helen, sent up there to be cured of a dangerous liking 
for Horace Rockbridge, to find there, right in the bosom 
of the family whose Puritanical proclivities had been 
considered the great safeguard, a husband in the 


CACOETHES SCRIBENDL 


401 


“young black-coat’’ who was to have made Mr. James 
Keynard so perfectly irresistible by sheer force of con- 
trast. 

Everything, everything lost I Himself reduced to 
absolute poverty again. The merest dependent upon 
his wife’s charity ; and what was her poor little portion 
in comparison to the magnificent fortune of the two 
children which he had been handling, — yes, and — curse 
the luck! — would have been handling yet, if he had 
one soul to back him. But treachery and imbecility 
had balked him at every turn. If Rosine Chevreul 
had been made of different stuff, that accursed mar- 
plot, Bertha Lombard, would not have had it all her 
own way in his forced absence from Aland. If that 
incomparable fool, James, had only played his cards 
better, Helen and her money would have been secured 
to him, at least. But now that, too, was gone. 

Just as he had arrived at this point in his torturing 
reflections, that “incomparable fool,” Mr. James Rey- 
nard, opened the library-door and stood in his brother’s 
presence. 

“ Hello I What’s up now ? You seem to be on the 
rampage.” For Dr. Reynard was pacing the length of 
the library in a perfect frenzy of excitement. 

“You egregious fool you, read those letters on the 
table, and be in a hurry, or I shall be tempted to kick 
you out of the house before you’ve mastered their con- 
tents!” was the courteous rejoinder. 

“ What in the devil have I done now ?” said James 
the little, stepping toward the table, and looking cu- 
riously at the pile of open letters which was thrown 
in a heap upon its surface. Mrs. Reynard’s were 
there, too. She had sent them to her husband for 
perusal, she being confined to her bed that morning 
with some slight indisposition. 

“ Read, sir !” roared the baffled schemer, without 
even pausing in his furious walk. 

Quickly ensconcing himself behind the table, so that 
his brother’s threat of kicking him out of the house 
35 


402 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES, 


before he had finished the task might not be carried 
into execution, at least without warning, Mr. Reynard 
proceeded to read. 

For a few moments nothing but the crackling of the 
paper, as the younger brother turned over leaves and 
folded up letters, or an occasional low-muttered oath 
from the elder, disturbed the silence of the room, which 
was broken finally by a sigh of exhausted attention on 
the part of Mr. James Reynard and the exclamation, — 

“ Euchred, by Jupiter!” 

This flippant ejaculation, this airy levity, was more 
than John Reynard, sore and smarting as he was, 
could or would stand. It was the last ounce ; besides, 
he was fairly panting for some one on whom to wreak 
his bottled fury, and who more richly deserving than 
this imbecile puppy who had assisted so generously at 
his downfall ? 

One active bound placed his left hand in possession 
of a firm hold upon Mr. James Reynard’s orange- 
colored cravat, and with the right, doubled up into a 
most formidable-looking fist, he proceeded to punish 
his delinquent brother properly for all sins of omission 
and commission. Under the former head came his 
failure to marry the heiress of Aland. Under the 
latter, which were too numerous to enumerate, came 
the crowning sin of that superbly-impudent ejaculation 
which had brought about the castigation. 

If the stricture on the orange-colored cravat had not 
been so extreme as to interfere seriously with articula- 
tion, I think Mr. Reynard would have ventured upon 
a mild protest against such barbarous treatment ; but 
as John was much the stronger man of the two, the 
poor little worm just wriggled, and gasped, and writhed, 
until, with one grand final shake, his wrathful brother 
flung him against the wall, giving him just five minutes’ 
time in which to make preparations for leaving Aland. 
I think he found three and a half all-suflBcient, for at 
the expiration of that time he passed through the hall 
at Aland looking very red in the face and very sullen 
about the mouth. 


GOOD WILL BETTER THAN ILL WILL. 403 

“I wash my hands of you, sir, forever!” was the 
sternly-unforgiving adieu of the elder brother. 

And we will do the same, reader, taking care to 
accompany our ablutions with plenty of the soap of 
oblivion, for, after all, a nice young man who could 
have married a hundred thousand, and yet didn’t from 
sheer imbecility, had better be forgotten than remem- 
bered. 


CHAPTER LI. 

BETTER THE GOOD WILL THAN THE ILL WILL OF A DOG. 

The wisdom of the old saw that forms the caption 
to this chapter was destined to be illustrated by Dr. 
John Reynard, the whilom favorite of Fortune. But 
so shamefully had he abused her kindness, such an 
ingrate had he shown himself to be, that Fortune, in 
a rage, had turned her back upon him, and handed 
him over to Misfortune, to be punished and scourged 
according to his deserts. 

To drop figures of speech, — after Dr. Reynard had 
dismissed his brother in the gentlemanly fashion de- 
scribed in the last chapter, his anger having become 
somewhat cooled during the process of pounding the 
nice young man, he felt himself sufficiently master of 
the occasion to smooth his furrowed brow and curve 
his lips into the insinuating smile which had become 
almost natural from constant use, and having thus 
prepared himself facially, he repaired to his wife’s bed- 
room to rejoice with her over the good news the morn- 
ing’s mail had brought them. He found her sitting in 
an easy-chair, a rather crumpled-looking cashmere robe 
enveloping her person, her hair drawn simply back 
from her face, and the whole woman looking the in- 
different, listless, coldly-joyless individual which Mrs. 
John Reynard had really become. For, after all her 


404 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


wealth, and her grandeur, and her elegance, Agnes 
Snowe began to doubt if she ever really had been 
happy ; but then she supposed she was getting old : 
maybe that was what was the matter. Even Helen’s 
brightly-happy letter had not had power to stir the 
sluggish pulses of her sluggish soul. 

What would you? She had been cold, and hard, 
and selfish, and unnatural in the tenderest years of her 
youth, the springtime of the soul, when one natu- 
rally looks for warmth and softness and unselfishness 
and affection, and how can one expect it in the autumn 
of her life when she had spent all her brightest years 
in crushing nature and cultivating art ? 

Dr. Reynard entered her presence with a smile of 
paternal benevolence adorning his face. 

“ Agnes, my love, this is truly a happy day for us. 
Good news from all our dear ones. Ralph himself 
again, our little Helen about to marry a fortune ” 

“ Helen is doing very well,” interrupted Mrs. Rey- 
nard, a little petulantly ; “ but Ralph’s conduct really 
makes me doubt the truth of his being restored to his' 
right mind.” 

“ How so, my dear ?” 

“Well, I should certainly think. Dr. Reynard, that 
Ralph, with his person and fortune, might do better 
than marry Bertha Lombard.” 

“ You forget, my love, her tender care of him during 
his — a — his illness.” 

“Yes,” said the lady, bitterly, “she played her 
cards quite neatly.” 

As there was nothing to be gained by pursuing that 
point any further, Dr. Reynard let it drop. 

“ Of course you will go on to attend the nuptials, 
my dear ?” he presently resumed. 

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Reynard, indifferently. 
“ I am sure they are entitled to my best thanks for not 
giving me the trouble of any of the wedding prepara- 
tions. Mrs. Winchester is welcome to the glory, and 
the bother, too. I suppose you go, too, — do you not ?” 


GOOD WILL BETTER THAN ILL WILL. 405 


And she glanced up at her husband with a look of 
simple inquiry, without one particle of desire, or disin- 
clination either, in her cold, gray eyes. 

“ Hardly possible, my dear wife. We are threat- 
ened with unusually high water, and as my steward- 
ship draws to a close so soon, it will be necessary for 
me to remain here and do all that I can toward urging 
forward the work on the public levees ; for they are 
anything but secure, and one of the weakest points 
bears directly upon our river front. I may possibly 
come on in time to be there on the night of the wed- 
ding; but I see they urge your presence during the 
preparations, which, I doubt not, will last a month or 
two.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Reynard, indifferently, “I sup- 
pose one might as well be there as here. Every 
place is stupidly tiresome to me nowadays. I enjoy 
nothing.” 

“ You are a little unwelb my dear, and really need 
the change. The sooner you get off the better.” 

Mrs. Reynard having nothing to urge in objection to 
this, it was arranged that she should start early in the 
next week, accompanied only by her maid. As soon 
as she was fairly off. Dr. Reynard took the preliminary 
step in a plan which he had formed to secure to him- 
self some few thousand dollars at least out of the 
hundreds of thousands which Fate was so remorselessly 
forcing from his hands. That preliminary step was to 
dismiss from the premises the old and tried overseer, 
whose presence might seriously interfere with the 
manoeuvres he had in contemplation. 

The plantation of Aland and the adjoining one of 
Beechland made their thousands of bales of cotton 
yearly. To mark a large proportion of the crop on 
hand in his own name, to ship it to his own private 
merchant, and then to doctor the plantation accounts, 
so as effectually to deceive a young and inexperienced 
hand at the business as Ralph would be, was a plan 
of the very simplest sort, and easy enough of execution 


406 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


after the overseer’s dismissal. His wife would be ab- 
sent for two months, — and if she were at home, his 
plan would be in no danger from her, for her indiffer- 
ence about affairs had of late settled into absolute 
apathy. John Reynard thought bitterly of the paltry 
sum he should thus secure as compared with the colos- 
sal fortune he was relinquishing ; but it is something, 
he concluded, and something is at least better than 
nothing. 

A very busy life of it he led for the next few weeks. 
Privately marking in a cipher unknown to any one the 
precious bales which were his last hope. Shipping 
from a point unused by any of the Silver Lake neigh- 
borhood, writing letters of instruction to his own pri- 
vate merchants, and all the time playing the part of 
model stepfather, by riding hither and thither urging 
on the authorities to the work on the public levees, 
whose insecure condition endangered the Aland plan- 
tation seriously. 

It was while on one of these disinterested expedi- 
tions that Dr. Reynard succeeded in gaining the ill 
will of an individual so insignificant in the social 
scale, that the fact of having secured his enmity did 
not cause the master of Aland a thought. 

It was almost dark, and Dr. Reynard was riding 
rapidly, for he was still some miles from home, and 
the muttering of distant thunder betokened a coming 
storm. The horse which he was riding was not one 
of the very gentlest, and on turning a sharp curve in the 
road, a dark object, lying prone upon the levee, caused 
him such affright that, with one bound, he unseated 
his rider; after which exploit he stood quivering and 
snorting, but not offering to run away, for he had by 
this time discovered that the apparition which had so 
alarmed him was nothing but a man, after all, and the 
quadruped looked a little sheepish at having been so 
easily scared by the biped. 

“ Begging yu’re honor’s pardon,” said the biped who 
had caused all this mischief, springing nimbly to his 


GOOD WILL BETTER THAN ILL WILL. 40 T 

feet, “ an’ shure I never intinded to skeer the boss, at all, 
at all. Hope theer’s no harm done.” And holding his 
ragged hat in his hand, the poor Irish levee-man stood 
humbly before the unhorsed gentleman bowing his 
apologies. 

“You drunken fool I” was the courteous acceptance 
of that apology, “ no harm done but the breaking of my 
saddle-girth.” 

Now Mike had really been sorry for the mishap, but 
he was not going to be called a drunken fool for what 
had been the merest accident, so, slapping on the ragged 
hat which he had been holding in the most apologetic 
fashion in front of him, he replied, with a spirit of 
his own, — 

“No more drunken fule than yureseP. Mabbee if 
you’d worked as hard the day as meeseP, you’d not be 
unweeling to take a wee bit of a nap yureseP.” 

“Hold your cursed jaw, and lend a hand to mend 
this girth !” 

“ Do it yureseP for want o’ me,” replied the Irish- 
man, sullenly turning his back and preparing to walk 
off. 

“ You confounded Irish bog-trotter, do you know 
who you are talking to ?” '^exclaimed Dr. Reynard, in 
a towering rage. 

“ ‘ Do I know who I’m talking to V ” mocked the 
levee-man, now as furious as his interlocutor. “ Shure 
an’ I do. I’m talking to a young man what gat a leeft 
in the warld by stepping into a ded mon’s shoes. An’ 
a bog-trotter, mabbee, yu’re right in namin’ me ; but 
shure an’ the shoes I trotted the bogs in are gude, 
honist shoes, aimed be gude, honest work, an’ belang 
to no ded mon livin’. An’ to mak shure that I’m de- 
screebing the right mon. I’ll tell ye a leetle more about 
yureseP, for Mike Finney’s no stranger on the Silver 
Lake ; many’s the rod o’ ditchin’ he’s done for him 
that’s gone, — the father of the puir laddie that should 
be lordin’ in the old house at Aland in place of yure- 
seP.” 


408 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


A volley of oaths from the physician, who was still 
tugging vainly at his saddle-girth, interrupted the flow 
of Mike’s eloquence. 

“ An’ if its coorsing yu’re wantin’, Mike Finney is 
the boy to ’commodate ye ; an’ he’ll give ye two in 
the game and bate ye at that.” And he prepared to give 
such a specimen of his powers in that line, that Dr. 
Reynard, feeling himself vanquished in the war of 
words, raised his riding-whip, and, as he bounded into 
the saddle, he dealt his wordy adversary a furious blow 
about the shoulders. 

“ Now hold your infernal tongue, will you ?” 

By the mother of Jasus, ye’ll remember this night, 
some day, Docther John Reenard ! Oh, yu’re heart is as 
black as O’Toole’s colt! Shure am I, whin St. Patrick 
druv the snakes out ov Ireland, he turned one of the 
pisonest sort into a moo, an’ that same was yu’re 
torbear. Ye’ve struck me, me lad ; just bear that in 
mind, will ye, until Mike Finney sends you his com- 
pliments ? — which he’ll not forget to do, Misther 
Reenard, — he’ll not forget to do !” 

“ D — n you ! what can you do, poor fool ?” exclaimed 
the rider, wrathfully, disengaging his bridle from the 
hold of the Irishman. 

“Wait an’ see, Misther Reenard, — wait an’ see. 
Better the gude will than the ill will, if it be only a 
dog, Misther Docther Reenard. Ye’ll think so yure- 
sel’ before yu’re mony years older, yure honor.” 
And, with mock humility, the infuriated levee-man 
stepped aside for the gentleman to pass on. How, and 
when, he was brought to “think so himself,” is all 
that remains for me to tell. 


CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


409 


CHAPTER LII. 

CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 

The spring of 185- was a late one. By which, I 
presume, is meant that spring is being defrauded of her 
rights by surly old winter, who lingers late with his 
biting winds, and bleak rains, and mud and slush, and 
ten thousand disagreeable accompaniments, and will not 
go, although he knows he ought to have gone long ago. 
So spring was late in coming because winter was late 
in going, and she would not trust her tender, first- 
born — daisies and hyacinths — to the chance of being 
slain by some cruel Parthian dart, cast by the de- 
throned king of winter. So the gentle spring influences 
bided their time, — and the tiny bulbs, impatient as 
sixteen-year old beauties for their debut, still lay im- 
prisoned in the cold, dark ground, and old winter still 
blustered and stormed, and hailed, and rained until he 
had lashed the ever-restless waters of the mighty 
Mississippi into a state of impatient fury, that sent 
them rushing and swelling through its mighty basin, 
with an angry turbulence that betokened mischief to 
the experienced eyes of the dwellers upon its banks. 

“ We are to have high water! Look to the levees 1” 
was the cry throughout the lowlands of the Mississippi 
Yalley. Thousands of brawny, sunburnt exiles of 
Erin toiled unceasingly, strengthening weak places, 
elevating low ones, — doing everything, in fact, that 
puny man could do to protect the country against the 
angry giant. 

Dr. Reynard had been fully assured that the levees 
bearing immediately upon his locality were secure be- 
yond a doubt. He had ridden out to the river day 
36 


410 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


after day, to hold long; and scientific discussions with 
the overseer of the works, who had finally satisfied 
him that he need be under no apprehensions whatever. 
His mercenary soul was a prey to the very keenest 
anxiety ; for, although the dwelling-house at Aland 
was situated sufficiently far from the river to secure 
the premises from danger, the stock-yards and barns 
and gins were so situated that any crevasse within a 
mile of the Aland property would be attended with 
serious loss. In case of such crevasse, the lives of 
many hundred heads of fine cattle, immense flocks of 
sheep, more than a hundred mules, some fine horses, 
all would go. 

By some process of financiering, with which no one 
but himself was familiar, the most of this stock bore 
tlie private brand of the present master of Aland, and 
in the doctored accounts which were soon to be sub- 
mitted to the rightful master of the property, it figured 
as purchased by Dr. Beynard during the minority of 
the children. The doctor knew well that his accounts 
could not stand legal inspection ; but he was trusting 
a good deal to the fact that Balph wmuld hardly care 
to proceed to extremities with his mother’s husband,, 
and make their family affairs the talk of the neighbor- 
hood. Hence his extreme anxiety respecting the safety 
of these precious beasts. They were his, — his property, 
— to be converted into his money. 

To remove them to a place of undoubted safety 
would have cost time and money, and, as he was so 
repeatedly assured that the levee was as sound as 
mortal means could make it, he was fain to be content. 

Mrs. Reynard had returned to Aland alone, the 
young couples having mapped out a bridal tour which 
would keep them absent for soitie months more ; and 
she alone, therefore, was a participant in her husband’s 
keen anxiety relative to the levees. 

She had been home hardly a week when the Silver 
Lake neighborhood was visited with a storm which 
will be vividly remembered for many a year to come. 


CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


411 


It was a wild, wild nig-bt, — wondcrfally so, considering 
the time of the 3^ear. The rain beat against the closed 
shntters mercilessly, and the driving wind caught the 
tall cottonwoods close to the house in such a fierce grip 
that they groaned and creaked and moaned like liv- 
ing things in mortal agony, making Agnes Reynard’s 
cowardly" soul shiver within her. 

“ Shoot me, if I’m not glad that levee’s all right, or 
it would be all up with the stock-yards this night!” 
was Dr. Reynard’s last coherent utterance, as he settled 
himself for the night. 

And while he slept, Nemesis was busy. Through the 
mud and rain and darkness and bluster of the night 
the figure of a man went sturdily trudging onward. 
He hardly made any attempt to proceed stealthily, 
for he knew there was barely a possibility of his meet- 
ing’ a living soul abroad such a night. With long, 
rapid strides he walked onward until he had reached 
the levee upon which Dr. Reynard was trusting so 
confidingly for the protection of his treasure. 

The river had long since overflowed its natural 
boundaries, and was resting against the levee within a 
foot or two of its summit. It had already reached the 
highest water-mark on record, and as there had been 
no rise during that day, there was every reason to be- 
lieve the danger over. Outside the levee was a dense 
growth of young willows and cottonwoods that clothed 
the banks of the river. The wind was playing mad 
pranks in this thicket as the solitary wayfarer ad- 
vanced and mounted to the top of the embankment. 
The tall, slender saplings bent forward until he could 
have touched them with his hand ; then sprang back 
with a wild, weird whistle, creaking and lashing their 
branches against their neiglibors in a dismal sort of 
way ; and the general gloom was enhanced by the 
sullen splash of the muddy waters as they dashed up 
against the embankment that so far had resisted even 
their mighty power. If Mike Finney iiad been an 
imaginative mortal, who could fancy warnings and 


412 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


tokens of divine wrath in whistling winds or moan- 
ing waves, he would have turned and fled, entirely re- 
linquishing his long-cherished plan of vengeance. But 
he had been more insulted than it often comes to an 
Irishman to feel. Curses he co'uld have forgotten, but 
the stinging cut of a riding-whip was not so easily for- 
gotten or forgiven ; and, so far from relenting on this 
wildly-tempestuous night, he seemed to consider it a 
decidedly propitious one for his object, and fell to work 
with the air of a man determined to do what he had 
come to do very thoroughly. He had a spade swung 
over his right shoulder, tied to the handle of which 
was a bulky bundle, well wrapped up in an old water- 
proof overcoat. Disengaging this bundle from the 
handle of the spade, he laid it down on the ground 
close at hand ; then he stuck his spade into the fresh 
earth on the levee, and, resting one foot upon it, he 
crossed his hands over the handle and gave utterance 
to the first sentence that had crossed his lips since 
leaving the camp that night, — 

“ Let me think awoil.” 

He turned his eyes northeastward from the spot 
upon which he stood, glancing in the direction of the 
Aland estate. He did not see it, nor would he have 
done so if it had been the brightest of sunshiny days, 
instead of the darkest of stormy nights, for a long, 
narrow skirt of woods intervened between the planta- 
tion and the river road. But Mike stood there in the 
dark, taking his bearings in some occult fashion, intel- 
ligible to himself alone ; the result of which was that 
he once more shouldered his spade, and, picking up his 
bundle, he walked briskly up the levee about a quarter 
of a mile northward. Then he stopped again, and, 
seeming satisfied that he was in the right locality this 
time, he pulled off his coat, and, flinging it down near 
him, he rolled up the sleeves of his coarse hickory 
shirt ; then, planting his spade firmly in the ground,-! 
right in the center of the embankment, — he exclaimed, 
with vicious vim, — 


GALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


413 


“Michael Finne 3 ^’s con)plinients to ye, Misther Doc- 
ther, an’ here’s hopiipi^ yn’re sleeping well the night !” 
Out came the spade, leaving a long, clean cut behind 
it. Down it went again at right angles witli the first 
incision. Up it came again with a second apostrophe, — 

“ Noomber two’s for the gude mon that’s gone! 
Many an’ many’s the jigger he’s give to Mike Finney 
in the days bygone !” 

A third cut “Noomber three’s for the puir laddie 
that canna help hisself !” 

A fourth cut. “An’ noomber four’s for the lash ov 
yu’re riding-whip, Misther Docther!” 

Then he lifted the neatly-cut, square sod of earth 
out of its bed and flung it into the river. Next he 
undid the manifold wrappings of his bundle, and 
brought to light a small can of powder, several dis- 
jointed pieces of an old tin gutter, and a \mrd or two 
of hempen rope. The can of powder he found fitted 
admirably well into the square hole in the levee ; then, 
disposing of his tins in close proximity from the mouth 
of the can down the inside slope of the embankment, 
he proceeded to saturate the rope with the contents of 
a bottle which he extracted from his pocket. This 
done, he inserted one end of the rope in the mouth of 
the powder-can, and, slipping it through the tin tubes, 
he allowed the other end to protrude about an inch. 
Then Mike Finney’s simple engine of destruction was 
complete ; but before apjdying his dark lantern to the 
end of the rope, he turned once more, facing the Aland 
property, and, raising his fist in the darkness, he shook 
it fierceh^ in the direction of the house that sheltered 
the man who had struck him. 

“ ‘ What can you do, ye puir divil ?’ Theer, Misther 
Docther, I’ve coomed out this most disagraible of 
neeghts to show ye what a puir divil of a bog-trotter 
kin do toward returning the compliments of the day to 
agintleman what rides on his boss and carries a ])ritly 
little riding-wip. Ye’ll know the morrow, whin ye git 
up and find iioothing but wather all around ye, that 
3G* 


414 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES. 


it wad a bin better to ha’ kept the gude will ov the 
dog, Michael Finney.” 

After which oration the Irishman repossessed him- 
self of his spade and hat, then he opened the slide to 
his lantern, and holding the blaze to the end of the 
rope, he waited only long enough to be sure that it 
had ignited, when, breaking into a fleet run, he fled 
toward the camp as if all the furies of hell were at his 
heels.. 

The encampment where the temporary huts had 
been erected for the accommodation of the levee-men 
was hardly more than half a mile from the spot where 
Mike Finney had cut the levee. And running as lie 
did, he made such good time that before his two yards 
of rope had burned to the mouth of his powder-can 
he had flung himself into the first cabin he came to, 
and was immediately so very sound asleep that when 
a cannon-like report startled all his fellow- workmen to 
their feet, it was with some difficulty that he could be 
aroused. 

“ What in the divil’s the matter wid ye all ?” ex- 
claimed Michael, vyith an innocent face, sitting up on 
his bunk, and rubbing his knuckles fiercely into a pair 
of eyes that had not been closed five minutes. 

“ The levee’s broke, mon ! — doon’tye hear the wather 
howlin’ like a wild baist? Up wid ye, the boss will 
have us on the tramp witheen five meenits.” 

“ Of course it’s broke,” said Mike, placidly. “ What 
levee, made by human hands, could stand the lashin’ 
the ould river’s been givin’ it this blessed night ?” And 
he prepared with alacrity to accompany his companions 
to the tent, where the foreman was issuing orders for 
an attempt to repair the breach. 

In the mean while. Dr. John Reynard was sleeping 
in blissful unconsciousness that Mr. Michael Finney 
had selected that night for “ squaring accounts.” 

It still wanted some hours of day, when a frantic 
knocking on his bedroom door aroused him from this 
peaceful slumber. 


CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


415 


“ Master, master ? Listen ! The levee ! Done broke. 
Yere dat roarin’ ?” 

With a frantic bound Dr. Reynard sprang from his 
bed, and throwing up the front window, he put his 
head out to listen. “ Hell and fury !” he exclaimed, 
as the distant roar of the water fell distinctly upon his 
ears. In a minute he was in his clothes, in another, 
he was standing on the veranda, white and speechless, 
paralyzed for a moment by the totally unexpected 
calamity. 

■ The negro who had come to give the alarm stood 
silently by, waiting to see \vhat effect his information 
■was to have. Only a moment or two did the ruined 
man stand irresolute, then, seizing his hat, he sprang 
down the front steps, bidding the man follow him. 

Mrs. Reynard, who had been standing in the window, 
startled, but motionless, asked him indifferently what 
he was going to do. 

“ I am going to try, madam, to save my stock, and, 
as the water may cover the road before my return, I 
shall go in the skiff.” 

There was no time now for connubial urbanity, and 
that “ madam” was the curtest form of address Dr. 
Reynard had ever used to his ladj^-wife. 

“ Certainly,” said Mrs. Reynard, coldly ; “ you are 
perfectly at liberty to risk your own life if you value 
it so lightly ; I only hope poor Bill won’t lose his, for 
he is a good soul, and a valuable hand.” 

Those were the last words that Agnes Reynard 
ever addressed to her second husband. She withdrew 
to her own room, and presently she heard the splash 
of oars, as with long, steady strokes Bill Ray .sent 
the little boat skimming over the dark water of the 
sleeping lake. 

“What you gwine do. Mars’ John?” asked the" 
oarsman, who was obeying blindly in starting out on 
this perilous expedition, but felt assured no good could 
come of it. 

“ Open the stock-yards and let the cattle swim for 


416 


DEAD 3IEN^S SHOES. 


it,” was the curt rejoinder. Bill shook his head in a 
discouraging manner. 

“ How, sir!” cried his master, savagely, irritated by 
the ominous silence the boy maintained; for in the 
darkness he could not see the shake of the head. 
“ There’s no harm done yet, sir, if it’s below Big- 
Bayou ; for that will have to fill up before my lots are 
flooded.” 

“ ’Tain’t below Big-Bayou, Mars’ John.” 

“How do you know, sir?” roared the white man. 

“ Look thar, master,” said the slave, respectfully, 
pointing to something dark floating slowly toward 
them from the very direction they were steering to 
reach the stock-yards. 

“Drift alreadVi A log I Good God!” exclaimed 
the master, looking at the slowh^-advancing object 
with horror in his eyes. Then his fears for his prop- 
erty seemed roused to a pitch of frenzy. 

“ Row, old man ! — row hard ! row fast! Fifty dollars 
if you get me there before the water is too high !” 

Old AVilliam bent to his oars with a will and in 
dumb silence, for he belonged to a phlegmatic race that 
seldom wastes words in bootless argument. But he 
knew that if the current had already found its way 
into Silver Lake, the crevasse must bear very directly 
upon the Aland stock-yards, and hence their efforts 
would be in vain. But to argue with the infuriated 
creature opposite him would have been sheer throw- 
ing away of wisdom, so old William rowed on, leaving 
the folly of the attempt to make itself apparent. 
Straight ahead of the boat was a small island which 
cleft the waters of the lake in two. As they neared 
this island, the oarsman spoke again, — 

“ AATdch shute, master?” 

“ Willow shute,” was the brief reply of the deter- 
mined man, as he grasped his steering bar more firmly, 
to prevent it being dragged from his hand. 

As they entered the shute, the roaring of the water 
became louder and nearer, and the negro became aware 


CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


4n 

that a strong, swift current was telling desperately 
against him. It soon became a slow and painful 
struggle for the little skilf to make any headway. 
Every moment the boy expected to receive the order 
to turn back, for surely now his master was convinced 
of the hopelessness of the undertaking. But a husky 
“ Row on,’’ was all that issued from the lips of the white 
man, who was placing his own life and that of the 
slave in slighting competition with his cows and oxen. 

Painfully, slowly they advanced, until they reached 
a narrow gorge, through which the pent-up waters 
came hissing, and foaming, and spitting with such 
spiteful vehemence that all the determined energy of 
the two men combined could not force the boat through 
it. Then the negro ceased his efforts and began a be- 
seeching appeal to the man who was making so much 
of brute life and so little of human : 

“ Master ! Good Mars’ John ! Turn back, do, please, 
sar ! ’Tain’t no use tryin’ to git furder. This nigger 
knows dese waters bettern you do, good Mars’ John, 
an’ it’s like temptin’ of Providence to keep gwine on 
in de face of them bilin’ waters, which do seem like dey 
was sayin’, ‘ Go back, go back, you’re steerin’ straight 
inter de jaws ov death !’ ” 

Dr. Reynard had been silent during this harangue, 
neither hearing nor heeding it, but listening, as ever, 
to the evil counselor within his own bosom, to whom 
he had given heed so long, that its voice had become 
the law of his life. Step by step that counselor was 
now leading him onward to destruction and death. 

‘‘ On,” said Avarice, “it will not be death ; it may 
be peril and suffering; but you are a good swimmer, and 
can save yourself, and what is one human soul in the 
balance against all you will lose by not going for- 
ward ?” 

“ Damnation !” he yelled aloud, “ why don’t you row? 
Once through this gorge, and you know we can make 
the yards easily enough.” 

“ Turn back, master,” once more said the old negro, 


418 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


ill a voice so solemn that it seemed the voice of 
prophecy. 

“ Curse you!” cried his master, turning fiercely upon 
him, with a baleful light in his shining eyes, “ do 
you suppose I shall stop to weigh your worthless life 
against my cattle cooped up yonder drowning? Row 
on, before I brain you where you sit He raised the 
steering oar, as if to carry his threat into instantaneous 
execution. 

Old William gave one more frenzied pull that pushed 
the boat into the middle of the gorge. The savage 
current caught it and sent it spinning round and round 
like a top ; then tossed it mockingly back to the mouth 
of the gorge. 

The negro looked at the white man, whose face 
gleamed coldly relentless in the gray dawn of the 
coming day. He glanced at the seething waters. He 
could not stem that current. By one long, dexterous 
sweep of a single oar he brought the bow of the boat 
close enough to the bank of tlie pass to enable him to 
grasp a protruding root; then, with one wild yell, — 
before Dr. Reynard had in tlie least comprehended his 
design, — he sprang ashore and broke into a fleet run. 
In springing from the skiff his foot gave it a fierce 
backward impetus that sent it once more spinning 
round in the eddy, which the experienced oarsman had 
found it so impossible to pass. 

Abandoned to his own resources, the desperate man, 
left alone in the skiff, now entered upon a trial of 
strength and skill with the boiling water. Again and 
again did the strong, swift current send his little craft 
spinning back to the mouth of the gorge, until finally, 
abandoning his oars, and clinging close to the shore, he 
succeeded in dragging and jerking the boat past the 
strongest current by clinging to the clustering vines 
and thick, gnarled roots that lined the banks of the 
gorge. By these means he succeeded finally in passing 
the point that had caused Bill Ray such despair. . His 
hands were tom and bleeding, and he was panting 


CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 


419 


from sheer exhaustion ; but he had but a short dis- 
tance now to go, and the rest of the way was com- 
paratively easy rowing, although a strong current, 
setting lakewards, still opposed his progress. 

At last he came in sight of the stock-yards, for the 
sake of whose inmates he had undertaken this perilous 
trip. There his worst apprehensions were realized. 
The yards were flooded, but as they were not in the 
direct path of the current, the force had not been suffi- 
cient to wash away the fences. Better for the poor 
imprisoned beasts if it had been. The maddened, 
frightened animals thus cooped up were swimming 
wildly to and fro, roaring and bellowing and bleating, 
and horning one another in their mad terror, until the 
whole scene seemed a picture worthy of Dante’s “ In- 
ferno.” 

John Reynard now saw the immensity of his folly. 
He could open the gates for them in a second ; but at 
what peril to himself! At the moment of opening 
them the maddened creatures would come upon him 
with such a rush that his own death was almost matter 
beyond speculation. There was but one chance — to 
open the gate suddenly, then steer close by the fence 
until he reached the gin, and there remain until the 
creatures had scattered in various directions. 

That one plan he carried into execution. Slowly 
the great gates swung apart, but before the bewildered 
beasts fairly comprehended that they were liberated, a 
few swift strokes had secured their liberator safety on 
the platform of his gin. In his frightened eagerness 
he sprang upon the platform without securing his boat. 
He made one frantic effort to recover it, but it went 
bounding out of his reach with an air of mocking defi- 
ance that rendered the effort futile. He looked after 
it in consternation. Then his spirits rose again. 
“ Never mind, I’m safely housed at least, and they’ll 
send boats out after me if I am not there by breakfast.” 
Thus consoling himself. Dr. Reynard threw himself 
upon the platform in a state of complete exhaustion. 


420 


DEAD MEN^S SHOES. 


“ Only a few hend lost, after all, and those sha’n’t be 
mine. Gad ! ain’t 1 glad I persevered in coming on ! 
And, Mr. Bill Ray, won’t I settle accounts with you 
when 1 do catch you I” He closed his eyes. He 
would sleep now that he was safe, for he was most 
accursedly tired after all that pulling. He closed his 
eyes and slept. And while he slept there came slowly, 
slowly drifting toward the platform three great fallen 
trees, thrown pell-mell upon each other as if some 
giant of the woods had been playing jack-straws with 
them. Yery slowly they drifted, as if meaning no ill ; 
very noiselessly, as if loth to disturb the slumbers of 
him whom the gods had doomed to die at their hands. 
An hour was a short time for a very tired man to sleep, 
but it was all-sufficient to bring the slowly-floating mass 
closer and closer, until, with a mighty crash, it closed 
with the supporting timbers of the platform upon which 
the master of Aland had thrown himself to sleep. 

AVith a wild cry of mortal agony he awoke. 

Only five minutes lease of life Avere granted him in 
which to settle a long, long account of offenses against 
high Heaven ! Then the relentlesg Samsons of the 
forest, carrying death and destruction in their own 
fall, bore him onward a corpse, — a mere thing, — of no 
more value than the wild weeds and broken planks 
and other debris that had collected in their branches 
in their resistless march. 

“ Though the mills of God grind slowly, 

Yet they grind exceeding small ; 

Though with patience he stands waiting, 

AVith exactness grinds he all,” — 

was Bertha Barrow’s unspoken thought, when she re- 
turned to Aland, herself a happy wife, and found its 
sole occupant a broken, listless widow, a woman with- 
out joy in the present or hope for the future. 

' As Agnes Snowe had meted, so had it been measured 
unto her again. 


THE END. 


3h77-5 




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